Instigator (rewrite)
by Onyxx-09
Summary: In a world that hates what is different, some have to be careful to not gain the title "MUTANT," to blend in and hide under the radar. But in between family and school life, high school crushes, homework, hormones, and emerging abilities, it isn't easy for young mutants. And when a particular speedster meets and makes a bet with a cursed girl, he gets way more. Human!OC. Part 1/4
1. rainy reptile (Prologue) (Episode 1)

_**A/N: This is an edited version of the old fic that had excess chapters that were time jumps. This rewrite is the fic without all those extra cuts and newly updated. I was advised to reorganize this fic once it's completed, so that's this right here. Though you can feel free to read that version if you'd like.**_

 _ **In this fic, there is a Wanda (Scarlet Witch) character, unlike her mere mention in Days of Future Past. This is an Peter/Human!OC fic. It is the first of four planned parts in a slow burn series. And it is, right now, set before Days of Future Past (but we will get to there soon enough). There are a few other OC mutant characters too, but nothing big.**_

 _ **I really do hope that this is liked. If not, feel free to shoot me a complain and critic here**_

 _ **The chapters have been broken down further into "Episodes" so if you want a better grouping than just chapter numbers, so, for example, if you want to read them in the clusters as they would be shown on a television show, as those chapters are more related.**_

* * *

Chapter 1: 1 - rainy reptile (Prologue) [Episode 1]

* * *

Rainy Capulet is a quiet girl. With not only having an unusual name that acquired her share of teasing in the past, she has also obtained a sort of reputation throughout her peers. Even though during most of middle and high school she attended the same classes with the same students who are with he same group of friends and who are still in the same labs and library study time as she, somehow she had acquired that title.

Since mid-junior high she had been regarded as enigmatic and a so-called "weak girl," which is ironic because she looks absolutely normal—she has no bodily difference, she has average health...

She has lived in this town following the move in elementary, when her father begun pursing his political career and her mother begun falling off the rails in their marriage. But she hadn't cared about that then. She hadn't cared about many things, including what her father did, and not only because she hadn't understood at the time.

 _A little girl stares at her shoes listening to the voices behind the closed door in front of her. Her father was supposed to take her to the zoo today. The plushie animal she had thrown on her bed minutes ago lay forgotten. She had been sent to her room because she had reminded him. Maybe she should have waited until the other man talking in the suit had left the house..._

She doesn't see her father much anymore.

A year prior to her enrollment in high school, she experienced a life-changing event. Now, she rarely speaks in school; she rarely interacts; she rarely smiles—if she does, it's feigned—because she can't. Those closest to her have also picked up on tiny noticeable changes. Neither knew why it was. In the years when she was smaller, she saw the world as a small place; a place where one would have to search far for something greater—this town is the only thing she's known and she wants to get away from it. She doesn't want to stay; she doesn't want to end up like her parents.

Her mother bakes too much and her father's office is constantly littered with papers and men in business suits. There have been too many faces coming and leaving through the front door. Even when they had that house before moving here, there were way too many faces she hadn't cared to count for that she'd get to know and then just leave so suddenly, some without a goodbye. Some who would eat their food without gratitude. Some who slept on their furniture, watch their television. They were all strangers.

There are too many people, too many faces that come and go from their home at the wee hours of the day. Though she's grown used to it, she's grown tired of it

Normally, Jeffery Garcia and similar music would play throughout the house as her mother would sing and dance, usually with a rolled one in her fingers; sometimes her mother would be weaving a basket or just gone. There are times when the tribal-themed furniture and the many antiques that decorated their home would become too much. That's when she would leave.

Rainy has never once been seen doing anything active in high school—she has never been a part of a club, a sport, or band. Since the beginning of high school, she'll be that one reading yet another book or staring out the window. She didn't participate in class unless called on, and she wouldn't talk to you either unless she knew you. But it's not like this is particularly her fault, because if she talked too much, if she got too close, her secret could become jeopardized.

Once in a while she has been seen talking to a small number of peers she's known for a few years now.

She has always sat in the classroom reading books, alone. Sometimes it is a hardcover that looks difficult, other times it's a comic book with a cover design indicating that it will decrease your intellect just by reading it.

Suitably, she's very smart and is at the top of the class. You'd definitely find the name Rainy Capulet within the top names in those who scored out of an upcoming test. So, also suitably to say, she found school profoundly boring. It's a pastime; it allows her to get rid of this extra time in her days.

Most times, Rainy can be found in the bleachers for the school's boys' basketball games talking to a few of the players if she isn't with those called friends or with a book in her hands. She apparently knows some of the players. Other times she's seen with one, or maybe two fellow peers at most, by her side. At the bus stop, she gets on/gets off and walks within a group of others from her neighborhood.

Rainy sees friends as a pastime  
Though this too isn't entirely her fault

One would suppose that she doesn't seem to have many friends at first glance, not even one person she's apparently close to or stays around in comparison to the multitude of juveniles who are always in groups, laughing, and joking.

Even though there are a number of others who feel the same as well  
Wanda knows this feeling especially

Even though she's been going to school with many of the same faces that transferred from junior high, many of them haven't interacted at all. It is a moderately small town where one would expect everyone to know each other, but they didn't. Many chose not to. And so she stopped feeling.

IF they had known each other...  
No one would ask why there are bags under eyes...  
You see?

That had been the norm for her now: just living in this small world, trying to survive in an anxious world, dreading the day she would become like her parents as every passing lipstick-smothered and cigarette-smoking adult spoke of. She'd say that would be her excuse for reading so many books.

So those days she didn't come to school for weeks after an injury went generally unnoticed except by those who took attendance. Only a few noticed: those who's reputations were not favored by the popular of the school.

She was first noticed by a young brunette, a member of the school's wildlife society, who went by the name Wanda. It had been near the end of a boy basketball championship game in eighth grade, and Rainy was along the railing stairs out-looking the football field. She was alone and Wanda was just behind the fence far diagonally behind readying for her ride home. Rainy had been standing on a low rail and had been holding her wrist, a slight look of pain on her face, before glancing out at the field for a long time, opening her arms as if the wind could take her away. She also had a gauze and bandage on her upper shoulder. Wanda Maximoff didn't see Rainy Capulet much after, but it was heard that the girl had been on the news with other classmates who had been passing on their way to a diner as a celebration. They had been passing by in front of the camera that was reporting some crime, Wanda vaguely remembered.

Rainy had apparently gotten sick after that. Her reputation of being weak had followed that night.

She has a tendency of leaving unannounced...

Rainy began interacting less in school from then on. She kept out of events, spoke less to her friends, and read more. Much more. Entering high school, she reportedly lost ninety percent of her friends. She rarely spoke to any and only answered questions unless asked. She's merely glanced at by others and it is rare to have an honest interaction with her. She had also stopped smiling.

She was once a very social girl,  
her mother worries

Her mother helped cause it

However, that all changed on that day—it's more like a chain of events. A freak chain of events, actually. It all did a complete 360 on a rainy day at the school—it all began with a pale man in dreads and a top hat, a bald blonde in ritual robes, and a boy with silver hair.

Rainy Capulet.  
Gender, Female.  
Ombre dark brown hair.  
Bright eyes.  
Birthday, July 7  
Multiethnic American-born citizen

* * *

This house her parents own is average sized, three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, a large kitchen plus an island; but she knew that when her father wins the election he has been working hard towards— _if_ he wins—they would surely be moving into a larger space. To her, it would just make more room to herself and give the guests more space to roam unwelcome.

Rainy brisks down the hall. The schools would be coming soon and she she might have even made it out the door without any unpleasantries if only she had noticed the opened guest room beforehand. The last remnants of sweet smoke flowing into the hall from the open door—it was something so much the norm it went unnoticed at first. She didn't turn to catch sight of their newest stranger in the room and tries picking up her pace even quicker but it was inevitable she found out, as soon as she rounds into the kitchen.

She locks eyes with her mother whom is leaning against the stove. Now, it would take much longer to leave. If she misses the bus, she knew the attitude that would come when she asks for a ride. Last time, she had been told to not ask for another two months.

Her mother's pink flowery nightgown flowed to her ankles. All of the buttons were open—to no surprise—to where Rainy could see her breasts' valley. She knew the woman wouldn't care.

FLOWERS

HAIR IN A BUN

WHITE SMOKE

The woman's fingers rises to her lips, removing the bud from where it had been resting there and blows out smoke. She smiles. "What were you doing up all night, hun? I could hear you all the way in the room." She inhales from the drug again and lets out a small cloud of white smoke and watches it exit out the small open kitchen window. "You hungry?"

"I only got up once to use the bathroom," Rainy answers, hoping she isn't frowning. She watches as her mother moves the spatula to the pan of frying tofu. "And no thanks, I'm not hungry."

 _'You're why I had trouble sleeping last night,'_ Rainy thinks.

Her mother takes the blunt from between her lips. "You haven't been hungry a lot lately. Are you okay? You sick?" the woman asks, concerned.

Rainy shakes her head.

"You sure?" her mother worries.

"I'm sure."

Mrs. Capulet shrugs. "Well I am," she grins, turning back to the peppered crumble burning in the frying pan. "You'll be missing out! More for me!"

Rainy's expression doesn't change from her calm. "Mom, you just have the munchies." She never calls her mother by her first name no matter how much the woman insists.

"Yup," and the woman pops the _P_ childishly.

The girl turns, leaving. It is usually like this. Typical. Normal.

As Rainy makes her way to the front door, she does a beeline to the living room and sees a man looking from a family portrait on the wall to the small figurines on the shelf and adjusting the buckle of his pants. This is just what she's looking for, knowing her mother had a "guest" over the night before. And it isn't the first time the "guests" decided to gave themselves a tour or maybe take home a souvenir (usually being a porcelain figurine). Rainy is the only one who checked the house and tries to make sure nothing is stolen.

Like today.

The school bus would be coming soon.

Rainy takes in this new stranger. He had a lumberjack beard, matted hair, and the aroma of a stoner. He has to be one of the members of the private club Rainy's mother is. Washed-out shirt, matching ripped jeans, and a pair of dark shades that no doubt were hiding his bloodshot eyes. Rainy's knows he must be the cause of the smoke in the hallway.

He's a stranger, an _intruder_ , and no doubly a filthy thief. He is also _not_ her father.

And this intruder, he doesn't look surprise upon her entry, so she figured he's innocent enough, having yet to prove himself guilt.

Rainy is still holding the handle of her umbrella as they made eye-to-eye, and there is a beat of awkward silence.

"So yer the kid here?" Light country accent. _'This is a new one,'_ she thinks. Though his tone is light-hearted and even kind, Rainy still takes a step backward. And he sounds bored, and that's dangerous. Because boredom leads to stupid actions, and stupid actions can lead to dangerous outcomes. The stranger waves, his other hand on his hip. "Name's Bear. Sorry if we woke ya up last night. Ya know yer a lucky lil' lady for her to be yer ma...since daughters usually grow up to be like 'em." He chuckles, proud of himself at his disgusting joke, and winks. "She's a real MILF, you know. And I'm sure your gonna grown up to be like her." He smiles, speaking it as if she should be privileged, before looking her over. "You sure are pretty enough, and on your way already."

She doesn't respond.

"Yer Rain, right? Or somethin' like that. Donna talked a lot 'bout 'cha."

To her, he is making a fruitless attempt at conversing.

PIG

The man—Bear—then steps closer. "Yer kinda cute, ya know..." He reaches for her chin but she steps back out of reach. This time she hopes she's frowning.

She spits a response to him, and he straightens his stance, taken aback.

Luckily, her mother calls him then to eat the bland crumble spilled out on a plate. On the kitchen table is a small, personal bong and a silver spoon with a charred bottom. Rainy watches Bear leave and grab a plate from her mother in the kitchen. His voice vibrates as he tries to whisper, "that kid of yours is weird."

And Rainy's mother groans for the umpteenth time. "I know, I know. I'll have to have a talk with her..."

But she knows that the two would only thank each other for the previous night, and he would leave, and their guest room would still have a slight stench of him and her mother who would wash the entire room down to eliminate evidence and reminders. There is a half-chance that Bear would never come back, it more than likely not, and Rainy checks her pockets to double check she has the key she locked her bedroom with before walking out the door. Her room never stays unlocked when she's not around, a habit that drives her mother crazy but one her father silently nods to.

Only when Rainy's mother hears the bus pull up outside does she remember that she forgotten to give her daughter her packaged lunch.

 _ **. . .  
. . .**_

Rainy's hair bounces as she walks, students pushing past one another in the hallways.

At the school, it is a known fact that Rainy Capulet is not the sociable type. She never has, since around the end of middle school, some think. And this is evident in a number of details: the most prominent and supposedly _obvious_ are the never-ending lists of books she brings, or the way she carries herself, or the taunt twist of her lips. It's not necessarily in a _bad_ way, but in a way that makes one think that if taken the change to _truly_ talk to her, there's a likely outcome it wouldn't end so well. But this isn't entirely her fault—she just _became_ like this, falling into this bottomless hole after years of trial and failure.

Rainy's lips would pucker and curl and _bite_ , at almost any near vulnerability.

And she tries to avoid any conversation whatsoever, unless with those she knows well—because conversation usually leads to physical contact, and physical contact is something she couldn't sync with, something she couldn't risk. She has acquired a name for herself among the student males who have been the victims of her tongue-lashes and that has added to her reputation of being unsustainable and _untouchable_.

But then there is also Sherry.

Sheryl "Sherry" Addams  
Gender, Female.  
Wavy strawberry blonde hair.  
Hazel eyes.  
Various colored star-shaped hair clips.  
Birthday, September 28.  
Caucasian American-born citizen.

Sherry Addams is a cheery girl who has difficulty keeping secrets, and even more with knowing what to filter in conversations and when to stop one. Though Rainy has known the girl since pre-adolescent years, Sherry cares for her and both regarded a strong friendship. But it's also Sherry who helped push Rainy's current reputation into existence, unfortunately.

Now don't get it wrong—Rainy _does_ consider Sherry a friend, but this is also why whenever she does come, Rainy drifts to Michelle, another classmate who has a bitter tongue and slight Jersey drawl.

Michelle waves from across the room as Rainy enters the class, and she reminds herself to do the same. She forces a smile, or what she thinks is a smile, approaching the other. The door makes a slight _swooshing_ sound as she opens it.

Michelle White.  
Gender, Female.  
Tight curls, dark brown hair.  
Dark brown eyes.  
Wears a silk scarf at the base of her all-natural afro, like a headband.  
Birthday, April 2.  
African-American American-born citizen.

The classroom is self-divided into obvious cliques, a cliché Rainy notices that runs throughout any systematic hierarchy. There were the students who thought of themselves as the best; there were the athletes, those with minimal academic performance, and the rest just fell in-between somewhere. Such as Michelle, who is a part of the crowd of disco fans.

Michelle is already chatting away, Rainy sees as she approaches. She's pulled into a hug when she arrives, and Michelle is already hyped about some upcoming party at a kid named Jonathan Montgomery's. Rainy declines the invitation—she always does—and Michelle frowns, voicing just that.

"I just don't do parties," Rainy gives as an excuse.

Michelle pouts. "That's what you _always_ say."

"And that's what I always will." Rainy sets her back near her desk. "Unless—by some miracle—some life-alternating event happens that changes my mind." It's an ironic situation.

"...You're starting to be a real buzzkill."

Michelle doesn't know how much truth that is spoken behind those words. To her, Rainy is one of those who promoted parties but never attended. But the brunette had enough reason to not go. There have been events where she's supposed to be excited, happy even, and she just...couldn't. But because of her condition, she stopped going, not seeing the reason to be there when she couldn't get in the mood.

"Well, one of these days, I'm gonna make you," and Michelle smirks.

Rainy nodes. "Sure, whatever you say."

The school bell rings. Students are ordered to "sit down!"

The school building is a large, two-story, pasty white with a single flagpole on the front lawn that is graffitied on every inch under six feet. Only the mob of students on the grass and the red bricks that garnished the front left wing provided color. That, and the art wing, which is a pale yellow blotch ornamented with paint splatter, finger art, and random posters taped to the wall. Everything else is uniform, unchanging, plain.

UNIFORM

PLAIN

ORDER

SAME

BORING

Nothing's changed. It's the same immature parents, this school with the same people she's heard of since junior high.

There is nothing interesting in this town that she could see. The most people were interested in were politics—and those were the adults. Those her age were too focused on fashion, music, arts, drugs, things she couldn't get into but wished.

 _Black pause scene_

The teacher walks in at the last attendance bell, a school-wide starting mark that class is beginning. Rainy watches silently as the man hurries in with arms full of worksheets and folders, pausing promptly to shove his glasses back up his nose..

The teacher sighs and calls for the class' attention as he looks through his folders for a set of papers. It took several tries until successful getting the students to quiet, and even then there is still chatter. This is his third day of this week and his patience is running low.

A trio of boys near the front row next to the window laugh hysterically. This caught the man's attention but neither of them paid attention. One of them pulled something from his pocket but Rainy couldn't see it from her desk. The boy's tabletop shook as the adult at the front of the room slams his hands down on the desk, fed up.

"Next time I see that hat, Jason, it's mine!"

"Thomas, enough! Turn around to the front! Now!"

"Peter, stop talking!"

Jason quickly swipes the baseball cap off, exposing his brown mess. The three turn forward, emitting sounds of stifled laughter. This isn't the first time they've been scolded. No, not by a long shot. It's these three whom are the troubling ones in the class, the "jokesters;" it's these three whom the substitute yells at the most.

A girl in a pink skirt rolls her eyes. One of the other boys winks at her and puckers his lips in a silent kiss her way. Her nose wrinkles and she scoffs, unimpressed.

It takes another minute for the noise to lower again to talking volume.

"Alright class!" The teacher calls for attention again and reminds them that a group lab assignment will be performed today. He begins writing directions on the chalkboard.

The trio of boys smirk at each other, already knowing who will be in their partners. Michelle looks to Rainy, and she knew that both were to choose each other as partners again. Similar glances and silent affirmations were being exchanged across the classroom.

The man crosses his arms. Chalk-dusted hands were placed on his khaki-clad hips in an authoritative manner. "And this time, I'll be choosing who you work with."

The collection of crestfallen faces are amusing.

"And you better not slack off because this lab will count as much as an independent test grade." There were a few slackers in the room and he hoped to get rid of that.

A collection of groans follows.

Michelle twines her fingers under her chin, muttering a prayer, when the teacher picks up the clipboard and began randomly reading off names. Rainy watches her friend with a straight face. It isn't long before her name is read aloud:

"Liam Osborn...Michelle White."

Michelle's jaw hangs open, the bangles around her wrists making low jangling noises as her hands fell.

Then it's Rainy's turn. And she knew because the way the teacher's eyes drifted over the class and ran over her. The girl's emotionless expression didn't change. The teacher's finger slid over to her name and then calls out the second name his eyes fell upon that hadn't already been called.

"Rainy Capulet and...Pi...Pie...P—-" He scrunches his nose, knowing he is butchering the name. He finally blurts, "Pedro Maximoff."

There is an almost snicker that wanted to sound in the air. If there had been for sure, Rainy didn't notice it.

Michelle sucks in a breath; Rainy's face didn't change—she had no clue who Pedro is. She glances at Michelle who is wearing a semi-pained turn of her lips.

She doesn't notice at first, but when Rainy looks around for the profile of her partner, she stares back at a boy who had been looking over his shoulder, watching her. Then, he's called to turn back around. He already has premature grey hair.

As she watched him, she remembers that she had seen him before: around the beginning of the year once when sitting with Michelle and others, dully listening to the conversation at hand. Rainy had gotten up to grab something from her bag—she shouldn't remember what it is—then when she had looked to the classroom door suddenly. It had been before class started and she couldn't remember exactly the reason either, except that he had frozen in the process of removing his headphones when she had seen him. He had had stood in the doorway, and that he's just staring at her—at least that's what she suspected.

 _He had just stared at her_  
 _Like he was transfixed on something, she would have said_  
 _But that would have been too bigoted of her to presume, she supposed_

She stares back, a glare so intense.

 _She had been about to lash out a question_

 _"What are you staring at?"_

 _It would have come out harsher than intended_

She turns away instead.

She never noticed him before after that, never made the effort to. She barely kept herself above normal with Michelle, Sherry, and the few others she stuck around. That boy is just always that person in your class you partially knew is there but for unknown reasons, you never spoke to.

He is the same person from last time

She makes a faint huffing sound.

So that is Pedro...

Her expression didn't change. She looks back to the teacher.

Nothing has ever changes here, none that she saw. The same obnoxious adults, the same students from middle school. People only care about politics, maintaining mutants, fashion, music, arts, and drugs. It's just...ordinary.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Follow and Favorites only give a very vague ideas of people's thoughts. So please let me know what your think! Was it bad and crappy? Was it too long and obnoxious? Was it just ok? Don't hold back your words, please! Don't forget to review.**_


	2. chagrin (Episode 1)

**_A/N: So this OC character, Rainy, may seem rude. She's brash, unapologetic, to the point, and says exactly what she's thinking and doesn't much care otherwise; she may seem to have a bitchy attitude but there's an honest and not-so-normal reason behind it. In fact, it breaks the laws of physics and it should be impossible to have happened._**

* * *

Chapter 2: 2 - chagrin [Episode 1]

* * *

On that day a year ago, Rainy spilled a beaker of hydrochloric acid on herself. It _had_ been in front of a boy with greying hair and a room full of students with a teacher that is sometimes regarded as too strict. It hadn't been a humiliating experience, not really, and Rainy had ran to one of the bathrooms just in time to wash it off, but not soon enough before earning a permanent burn bruise on her lower arm.

That day years ago, she had been rude to that boy, she has to admit, bit it hadn't exactly been her fault. And besides, he's a known class clown, a smartass who is a part of the C- Crew—the band of students whose grade average is the C range.

But sometime during the following few months, Mr. Trevelyan, their science teacher at the time, is transferred to a higher grade at the town's eastern high school.

There were students who rejoiced at the news—those who hadn't held the best grades due to poor performance—and others held mild feelings, though knowing that there is a chance that they'd have him as a teacher again—whether he is a favorite or not. Rainy is one of those students.

Since that day of spilling acid on her arm in the classroom, Rainy began delving deeper into herself. She began refusing for new people grow close to her.

She kept those she knew as a tight group, letting no one new in

Rainy doesn't speak to Peter again after that day. She couldn't even if she desired. It had been nearing the end of the school year anyhow, and that Peter disappeared for that following week certainly helped.

Now, almost year later, another school grade ahead, and puberty almost run its course, Rainy still lives in the same house as before. Rainy would still wake up on a school day, try to dress herself and catch the bus for school. She would usually see her parents on her way out now, whether it was one or both of them: Her father would normally be reading the paper about stocks or his progress in the election—yes, by now, he had enrolled in the run to become Bayville's next mayor; her mother would be doing...whatever she would be doing at the moment, if she isn't getting high or having a "next morning" event with another of those apart of the same group as she.

You could say that Rainy's life has remained quite the same.

It is now a new year which is supposed to mean new beginnings. It is no longer the beginning of the term, however. Well, it still felt like it to some...

Rainy still met up with Michelle White and would see Sherry Addams when the strawberry blonde isn't with her bubblegum and smiling friends; Rainy still spoke to the others she knew.

Things were normal

PLAIN

ORDINARY

* * *

IN THE HALLWAYS

A brunette grumbles to herself, twirling the combination lock, very frustrated. This has been the fifth time she's tried opening this darn dial lock and her patience is on ice. She pauses, hoping a few deep breaths would calm herself. But still, as she tried once more and the lock not budging, she threw her fist down to her side and stamped a foot. And the lockers nearest her, including her own, swung open, the banging so loud in the hallway.

Conversation nearest pauses only for a moment as a few students look around, caught off guard.

Wanda freezes, also surprised and having jumped herself.

She quickly gathers what she needs from her now-open locker and hurries to class with her shoes scuffing along the floor. Her cheeks were a tinge pink.

It is an early a Tuesday morning—too early in Wanda's opinion. But being a student in school, she didn't have much choice. First period class will begin soon, she knows. A couple walks by—or a pair whom she guesses is a couple—of a brunette boy in a letterman jacket with his arm around a curly brown-haired girl in high-waisted pink jeans.

When Wanda hurries into class and slides in her seat, she takes a look around the room—half of them all were already here while the rest were beginning to file in as the morning bell neared. But still, as she watches each pass, she doesn't find what she is looking for, she doesn't catch sight of the familiar head of hair. But she doesn't frown this time and she doesn't become irritated, but begins memorizing the scold she would later give. Wanda looks around and doesn't see her brother yet, and she merely pushes her hair from her face and leans on her arms on the desktop.

She knew just as well as he that if he were to be late again, that would be five in a row and would grant him a seat in after-school punishment.

A part of Wanda worries about it…but the other said that this is all his own doing and not her problem. She knew if things got the worst, he'd arrive just as the bell would ring.

Her prediction isn't far from the truth.

 _ **. . .  
. . .**_

Pietro—Peter to everyone else—Maximoff, stood at the open door to his small suburban American home, book bag slugged over his shoulders and a grin on his face. He glances at his watch before focusing ahead, going over the mental map of his journey one more. He still has two minutes left according to his time. He looks left, down the road, and to the right. Certain there is no one watching, he places hands on the goggles on his forehead, sliding them in position.

"Showtime," he mutters.

A second later, he's gone, speeding down the road quicker than the normal eye could see. He's thankful he had paid attention so many times on the drive back home.

Having overslept and his sister not coming downstairs to wake him, he's now late…theoretically late. But then again, he is never "late"—in _his_ book.

Peter smiles to himself seeing the world pass by ever-slowly. He would make it to school in five minutes...or five in his time.

 _*Bell ring*_

Wanda glances once more at the open classroom door.

Nope. No one walks through. She merely sighs; he's going to be late again.

She rolls her eyes. 'Of course.' Wanda sits back in her chair, pulling the red hood further over her head.

The teacher at the front of the class today is a woman in a red dress and crinkled brows—a substitute until further notice. The woman leans against the long desk at the front of the room, rapping her manicured nails on the chipped, dark wood. She looks over the lesson plan left by the original teacher once more before she would begin the lesson for the day.

A small stack of papers rests on the desk near her hand, Wanda sees—homework to be given to their original teacher.

One more minute to be on time

As if on cue at the bell ring, Wanda catches a familiar streak of silver zip inside out the corner of her eye. And she groans to herself watching her brother slide into the room at the last literal second, hair a wild mess, hunched over as if to hide, hurrying inside with a biscuit in his mouth and already sliding his book bag off his arm. He rummages inside before pulling out three slightly crumpled worksheets. He mumbled something incoherent to the substitute through the biscuit sandwich in his mouth, already holding the worksheet homework outstretched to the woman.

The substitute slowly looks him up and down before taking the papers from him. A brow rises at his demeanor: all wrinkled shirt, un-pressed jeans, and wild grey hair. It's her first time teaching this class. Unknowing to him, she isn't one to excuse tardiness. She orders him to take his seat, coincidentally, behind his sister.

Wanda waits until she feels his desk shake at his collapse in the chair to hiss, "where were you?"

His arms are folded and he leans forward. Wanda can hear his intake of breath near the back of her jacket; he waits until the teacher's back is turned before whispering back. "What do you think? Oh by the way, thanks for waking me up this morning, Wanda." His speech had quickened as the years went by and his abilities came out full-forced.

Wanda scoffs and glances over her shoulder. The biscuit sandwich hung from his teeth. She isn't amused and rolls her eyes again. The look she gave is in question about the breakfast sandwich stuffed in his mouth.

"I got hungry on the way. Chill."

The teacher turns to the class then. She fidgets with her brown ponytail on her shoulder, going on about something that had to do with the government's history—some part of the lesson for that day.

"Is that from Lucille's?" Wanda whispers, not daring to look back. She keeps her gaze focused on the teacher and scribbles notes in a notebook.

Peter doesn't answer. Wanda feels a hot foil nudge her side. "Bacon and cheese."

Wanda smiles, hiding the sandwich in her lap until the substitutes turns her back again to take a bite.

 _ **. . .  
. . .**_

The Maximoff twins—Peter and Wanda—neither are considered significant to the school. Not like the popular students or the athletes or those who excelled in most, if not all, classes. Many times, the twins were seen as just another face in the crowd, and were only pointed out by those who knew them, whether good or bad.

Well, that is partially true. Especially for Wanda.

Her brother on the other hand—

Kids can be so cruel

—It was a different story.

It wasn't intentional, having singled Peter out from all the others. Some would say it was coincidental, and really, Thomas hadn't wanted it to happen. But for some, once there have been given the taste of the good life, it may be near impossible for them to come back.

It had been one day in school...

It had been caused by Clarice

Clarice Wilhelm is a temptress, a siren of the land, and little Thomas has fell under her spell. She offered him a chance to join their crowd, the "cool kids." She had been backed up with some of the most well-known names on campus when she came to confront him when he had been alone. Thomas had refused immediately, but still, many men fall prey to sirens.

She offered him fame

Wealth

And fortune

Clarice had told him that she had taken a liking to him that day after the lab assignment that year ago, cooing that he had looked "so smart" doing that experiment. She had wrapped her arms around him and he had smelled her scent and he was enthralled.

Sucking up

All he had to do was tell of an incident of the silver-haired boy, an embarrassing detail or memory or a rumor. That was all, and then the privileges would come raining, rapidly: parties, popularity, friends, awards of "the best smile" in the yearbook, girls, a possible position on a sports team.

All Thomas had to do was humiliate him.

LAUGH

POINT

TAUNT

CROWD

LIE

He simply had to humiliate Peter in front of more than "a few," humiliate one of his friends.

Tables—life—can change in one instant

All it took was one day. Thomas's words had been twisted into what he hadn't intended, making him seem worse. He hadn't even said anything wrong, but left his words ineffective. It were the other boys around him who had drove the nail in deep, warping his words as he stood horrified.

Thomas was still accepted.

He had tried telling this to the grey-haired boy, but Peter hadn't listened.

He set his baseball hat on fire that day

A hat he had gotten with Peter when the two had snuck into a local baseball game.

The two haven't talked since.

The minute the bell rang, the students hurried out of the classrooms like water from a spout, the substitute still calling out a remainder of the lesson after them.

Wanda blends in with the crowd quite effortlessly. Peter waits until the stragglers are left in the classroom to stand from his chair. He slugs his bag over his shoulder lazily, and his eyes are still hooded as he pulls out his headset from his bag.

Students crowd the narrow halls in a rush to get to their destination.

When Peter exits the class, he locks eyes with a familiar raven-haired boy across the way. Peter pauses, seeing him inside a semicircle of peers and laughing, smiling. The boy has been wearing glasses for several years now, and the other knew that they were around the same age; Peter frowns. The boy raises his chin in a greeting that no one else would to pick up, a look in his eye at the other whom he used to be close to.

Peter shrugs on his headphones and keeps walking, not even giving acknowledgement that he saw Jason or any of the other Honor Roll students.

Jason and Thomas and Peter had been friends years ago but—

But life happens.

CAFETERIA

"I don't know how humans manage to eat this stuff." Ronny sticks his tongue out in disgust, and watches the mystery mush drip from his spoon to his plastic tray.

"Dude, you're human too. And it looks more like mashed potatoes…" The girl, Meisha, beside him leans in close to her own tray of lunch food, investigating her own white dollop. It certainly looks like mashed potatoes…except for the smell—it didn't smell anything like potatoes she knew. She sat up. "Hey Peter, could you go get us some real food? Like, McDonald's or something?" She os nudging by the one at her side.

Peter has his arms folded under his chest, tray pushed and also untouched. Meisha frowns that he's still looking over his shoulder.

Meisha calls again. "Hey, Pete!"

This time he did turn to attention, large eyed and looking surprised.

"Did you hear a single word I said?"

He hadn't.

"What are you looking at?" Meisha looks around and proceeds to stand but the other motions for her to sit back down. And he hushes her. He doesn't want Thomas or any others to catch wind of him here—the last he knew, they were out on the field but Peter isn't sure and wore his hood just in case.

"Whatcha so focused on then?" the other boy seating across asks. "The only things that you get so focused on is AC/DC and porno," he chuckles.

Peter turns back around. "Har har."

Reynold "Ronny" Di Gallo  
Gender, Male  
Dark hair, kept in a buzzcut  
Dark brown eyes  
Birthday, October 31  
Italian-American American-born citizen  
Mutation, Camouflage

Ronny drops his spoon to his plate and concludes that the only things he's managed to eat were the rewarmed vegetables and bread roll. At some corner of the cafeteria, a cards game is going on.

Peter's eyes shifts between the two. "Do any of you know someone with the name Capulet?"

Ronny pushes his tray from in front of him. "Why?"

At the same time, Meisha spoke, sounding a little irritated: "is that who you were looking for?"

"Just answer the question already."

Both thought for a moment.

The three were the only at this table in the cafeteria. The three had chosen not to sit with anyone else, and others chose not to sit with them. It is a sort of silent territorial issue that is partially gained among any mass of people, and partially due to the social structure created. Burnouts don't sit with nerds, and the academics almost ever sit with the populars.

They were some of the school's "weirdoes"  
or geeks.

At least a few of those with that title

No one knew they were mutants  
Except each other  
It didn't stop the name-calling, however

"Someone in my gym class has that name," Meisha answers reluctantly. "I think her name is Blue Rain or something like that." She has a certain stare and almond eyes that many take as menacing. "Why?"

Ronny nodded. "The Juliet-girl," he adds, a pun the girl has acquired when the class had been assigned to take part in a reading of Romeo and Juliet. And the name just stuck.

"That's it!" Peter snaps his fingers. "You know her?"

Meisha scrunches her face. "No. Why would I talk to her? What do you want with her?"

Meisha Babinski  
Gender, Female  
Long orange-red hair  
Light brown-hazel eyes  
One long braid the length to her thighs  
Birthday, April 5  
Biracial American-born citizen  
Mutation, Organic Constructs—Comakinetic

Peter opens his mouth to answer but is cut off by Ronny. "That's her right there isn't it?" He points behind Peter. He smirks at seeing how quickly the other looks. "Since when were you so interested in her? What, we're not good enough for you?"

"No, she's…she just owes me, that's what." It is a lie.

Tables down is a girl with light brown hair and light olive skin seated next to a tall boy in a jersey. The table seems to be engaged and abuzz. A girl in a short hair cut reaches across the table. The tall boy in the jersey lets out a loud laugh.

But Peter had turned around at the wrong time. And Ronny lowers his finger, locking eyes with the different tall young man who had been searching the room the same when Peter had, he audibly swallows.

"Um…" Ronny grows nervous. Peter's eyes widen.

Thomas smirks from the middle of the cafeteria. He speaks something to those near him before standing and marching over, several tall, intimidating teens following.

Don't make eye contact, he's temperamental

Peter turns back. Ronny and Meisha watch as Thomas approaches. And when he does, he laughs, flexing his arms.

"Well, fellas. Look who we found."

Peter could hear Thomas' voice less than a foot behind him.

"Hey! Fruitcake!"

Peter stirs the potatoes on his tray, ignoring him. He still has the sweater hood over his head. "Go away, Thomas. I'm busy if you can't tell. Go find someone else to boast to; your ringleaders are already here. Or are you just cranky because they ran out of snacks at your exhibit yet?"

Thomas scowls. "You didn't seem like you were too busy then. And if I wanted anything to do with you, I would have just used your hair and make a spotlight reflect in the sky. I could page all the other wannabes I have to beat up. Your head's so big it just might work."

Peter's hands clench.

"Nah, just kidding," Thomas lies. "Brett here," he points over his shoulder, "says he saw you messing with his girl last week. And when he confronted you about it, says he's now missing a piece for his jacket. ...You know anything about that?"

Peter's nose scrunches. "A piece for his jacket?"

"Yeah, his jacket pins," one of the boys beside Thomas spoke up.

Peter looks over his shoulder and his mouth opens. "Ohh. You mean jewelry? Like a brooch? Brett, I didn't know!" He's speaking in feigned astonishment. "You have good taste! But then…you are a gorgeous guy, so…" Behind Peter, Meisha and Ronny look horrified. He smirks and calls the senior ball player "a babe." He continues blabbering. "You know there's a sale going on at that jewelry store in the mall. You can find the perfect gift for—if you role that way, Brett. I—"

"That's not what I meant!"

Thomas steps forward. "Look here. You like bling, don't you Peters, silver-dollop?" He mocks. "Now I'm going to give you until the count of three and if you don't have your head in that trash by then, I'm going to put you there myself." He raises a fist for emphasis.

"Go away Thomas, I don't know what you're talkin' about." Peter turns back around. "And if Brett would learn to keep track of his things for once then maybe he would have also noticed how much he sucks on the team and that that chick he was with has been " _talking_ " to some of those nerds on the math team."

"There's no way you'd know that!"

"Then why don't you go ask Brett then why he snuck into the girls' restroom with some floozy?"

Thomas' nose flares, but the anger dispersed a moment later. He smiled cynically. "Of course you'd know all that, wouldn't ya? You spying on people now, hoser? Now you've turned into some kind of creeper?" he irked.

Those at his side snicker.

Ronny feels his stomach falling.

"What? Next thing you know, you'll be tryna peek on me in my showers, huh?"

Peter's head jerks forward as Thomas' hand whacks the back of his head. And Peter caught himself just before his face would be decorated with the food on his tray, but his brows were arched as the hot rage heating in his chest.

The chattering around them lowered when Peter stood from the chair rapidly, it screeching across the tile. His hood fell off from the force and speed.

"C'mon, Maximoff," Thomas coaxes.

Meisha speaks up then, still sitting, nowhere near brave like her friend. "You heard him; get out of—-"

"Shut up, weirdo!" The taller spat.

"Hey! Don't talk to her like that!" Peter now glares back at the boy in a way one would have never thought he could possess for his ex-best friend. He leans from one foot to the other. "Whatcha gonna do, punch me?" He grins stiffly.

The taller slacks his jaw. The tension between the two could be sliced with a knife. "Hand it over, Maximoff."

"Chill out, _dickwad_. Hand what over? I told you I don't have—-"

Thomas jerks Peter closer, bundling the shorter's dark jacket in his fists. "Hand it over, geek." Thomas had hit a somewhat growth spurt since the last he and Peter talked, and he now stood inches taller than the young mutant. "A class pin. It's a diamond class pin."

Peter's brows shoot up then.

By now, they earned a small crowd to watch the dispute.

"Oh, you must mean that little old fashion-looking brooch-thing 'bout this big?" Peter held his fingers apart, indicating a small size. "What did his Grammy give it to him?" he mocks. His grey brows crease then as if he is just coming up with the thought. Or, it's just his true expression for the moment. "Yeah, I saw Milton with it a day ago I think...taking it to the pawn shop up the street from the skate park. It is a nice one too, just upset that I didn't get to it first."

Thomas is silent. Those flanking him didn't jump in. Peter smiles wider, sarcastically, as if saying "see, stupid?"

The cafeteria is quieting, the tension being picked up and teens waiting in anticipation for the first fist to fly.

Thomas' hands loosen on Peter's sweater, but he still give death glares to the grey-haired trickster.

Down the hall, a man's voice—a teacher—is coming down the hall. He's running, having been told a fight is to break out.

Loudly, as if to make sure everyone heard, Peter asks, "you know, you sound pretty upset about losing that diamond brooch. Are you sure it isn't yours?"

Thomas glares down at the other before Peter's world explodes into stars. A loud crack sounds in the room of Thomas' forehead connecting to Peter's just as two deans came in the lunchroom. Neither of the adults could figure out who exactly started the fight and so both boys were punished—one with a bruised ego, the other with a broken nose.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Follow and Favorites only give a very vague ideas of people's thoughts. So please let me know what your think! Was it bad and crappy? Was it too long and obnoxious? Was it just ok? Don't hold back your words, please! Don't forget to review.**_


	3. insinuating (Episode 1)

Chapter 3: 3 - insinuating [Episode 1]

* * *

Wanda's head turns in the direction of front door after hearing it slam open against the wall and then closed. She isn't too surprised to find no one standing there behind her; she pauses, just listening, potato chips still raised halfway to her open and half-stuffed mouth. The house returns to silence until a low clatter echoes from the basement. Wanda sighs, reluctantly leaving her bag of chips and TV program to instigate. She keeps turning as she left, straining to hear and catch the last bits of the television as she turns to the stairs leading down to her brother's room. She'd call it more of a cave.

Wanda stood at the top of the stairs and held both arms out at the rails, making sure there isn't a chance that he couldn't slip past without her knowledge. She raises her tone, calling his name at the top of the stairs, and immediately the noises below stop.

Right away, she knows he's guilty of something.

Wanda rushes down the last few steps and her eyes narrow. She's expecting to maybe see a flurry of movement flash by—maybe a few papers flutter in the air, maybe something sliding to a different location or crashing to the floor—but what she doesn't expect when she gets to the bottom is for him to be completely still, staring back at her, eyes large and obvious.

Peter is standing, slightly hunched over a small tabletop and completely stock-still, staring back at her from over his shoulder, eyes wide and hair a whirlwind. Something shone in his hand and Wanda's attention changed to that.

"What is that?"

He didn't answer her right away. His eyes shifted, obviously guilty. There's a thick wooden box in front of him that slams closed, the lock on it clicking in place.

The answer then came to her. Her eyes widen in fury, finger twitching, pointing at the piece of jewelry in his hand he tried to cover up. Her mouth gapes open and close in an accusation she couldn't find the words for.

Peter turns to her, folding his hands behind his back. "I don't know what you're talking about. Maybe try using words, that would help."

Wanda soon found her words and she gasps, "you didn't...!"

He raises a hand in surrender. "Whatever you're accusing me for, I didn't do it! I've been good, for once." He tries to hide the cocky smile forming on his face but fails tremendously.

Wanda huffs, becoming angry and stomping across the floor to stand toe to toe with him. Peter's smile diminishes. She grabs his hand and brought it up to both's eye level. A large diamond pin glistened between his fingers.

"Really? You didn't do it? Then who's is this? 'Cause last thing I knew, you aren't graduating in a year." It's a class pin assigned to someone who will be graduating that school year. "Whose is this?"

"I don't know—yours? Some lady who dropped it and left it on the ground? Some guy who was feeling generous?" He speaks quickly, sarcastically. The smile is gone completely now. "Which do you think Marya would believe more?"

Wanda's eyes narrow to dangerous slits. "I think she would believe that your need to "burn energy" and your sticky fingers have reached its limit."

His face falls. "Please don't tell Marya," he whimpers.

Wanda looks him up and down, and he now looks regretful. His wrist lies limp in defeat inside her hold.

It took her a while and some consideration, but she eventually mutters, "ok. Fine." And grunts. "She's gonna find out either way, so I'd rather not be involved in yet another round of both of your dispute." She sighed. She slips her fingers into his hand, taking the pin from his grasp. "But you're gonna have to return this."

Peter sucks in a breath air between his teeth. "What if I told you that wasn't exactly _possible_...?"

Wanda raises an eyebrow.

As he continues, his words beginning to tumble together due to speed. "...That the guy who had had it wanted to pummel me into the floor—that plus he isn't even exactly going to be in school for some time..." He then rambling on something about football is all she got afterward. He then falls quiet.

Wanda blinks.

"You're still going to have to get rid of it, eventually."

"Eventually is relative."

Wanda notices the small, yet sure grin spreading his cheeks and the dangerous glint in his eyes that arrives. She slides the pin into her jacket pocket, making sure to keep her hand around it less he tried to pick it from her.

"Besides," he continues, "that was going to be our ticket for that fancy dinner Marya's been wanting. Plus you." He pauses before pointing at the hand in her pocket. That mischievous grin of his began to slowly return.

Wanda takes several steps back. "No, Pietro." She would have to sleep with the pin under her pillow tonight, she supposed, knowing he would try to take it from her at any opportunity.

The grin on his face grew dangerous.

"Oh yes, _mala sestra_."

"Pietro..." Her voice warns, sounding wary. It then clicked to her and she then understood the glint in his eyes and her stomach drops. Wanda's eyes widen. Her grip on the pin tightens. "Stay away from me!"

Peter just steps closer, smiling crazily, fingers raising in front of him and tickling the air.

"I swear to you, _vi nakaza_." She took a step back, raising a finger at his chest and almost stumbles backwards. "I won't go easy on you!"

"Oh please! Like you can even control your power!"

He then lurks toward her and making her shriek. Wanda flies up the stairs. His echoing laughter seems to mock her.

Running is useless

Wanda glances over her shoulder and sees he hadn't followed. She runs up from the basement and turns the corner to the hallway to her room as fast as she could. She chose the mistake to slow and takes another glance behind her, saw as a blur of gray collided into her side.

Wanda screams, hitting the floor.

When Marya Maximoff returns home, she's welcomed by a sight she neither expects nor has seen in years, though slightly altered and slightly odd.

The woman is met by Wanda in tears on the living room floor as the girl reaches a hand up for mercy, her brother still on top and tormenting her. He zips from her arms to her waist to her feet. Wanda screams, pleading in her mother tongue.

Wanda hates being tickled

Peter had been tickling Wanda for longer than any took account for.

Marya's daughter squirms in her arms, throwing her arms in the air. "I wanna play!"

* * *

"Yes. Yes, here." Michelle smiles.

Rainy's frown didn't change; that's the smile Michelle wears whenever she has an idea knowing Rainy wouldn't particularly be accepting to. But then again, the girl is rarely accepting to anything.

"Why?"

"Because you need the help."

"Says who?"

"Says everyone," Michelle exaggerates. She's searching through the many shirts and long skirts that hung in Rainy's bedroom closet. There's a surprising amount of tie-dye that she didn't know the girl owned. "And are you going to be able to be free this weekend?" Michelle looks over a knee-length grey skirt for a moment before tossing it over her shoulder.

"You don't have to do this, you know."

Michelle only smiles. She glances over her shoulder at her friend sitting on the end of her bed. "Yes I do." That large smile is there again. "How long it's been? ...Two years for us? ...You'll thank me later, girl. Trust me."

Rainy isn't going to correct her that they've been friends for only over a full year now, not two. She wouldn't have had a chance to get more clothes if it weren't for Michelle, and honestly, she preferred that the girl had come over.

Michelle tosses several more bad clothing choices over her shoulder.

"No, not that." Rainy calls, seeing a sweater fall among the pile of rejects. She walks, grabbing it from the floor. "Not this one."

Michelle pauses. "Why?"

Rainy hesitates. "Just...not this one."

Michelle raises a brow.

Rainy wouldn't tell her, but that's the last thing she wore before she was _changed_

And it's the last piece she had of her stolen memories

Michelle sighs exaggeratedly, giving in. Her lime green bangles clatter as she resumes cleaning out Rainy's closet. "Make sure you're free this weekend, alright? Oh, and Sherry Addams wanted to talked to you about something yesterday. She wouldn't stop bugging me about it." Another tie-dye shirt is added to the reject pile. Most were homemade and not by Rainy herself. Luckily, neither parent were home when Michelle arrived.

Rainy mumbles into the sweater. It's curled around her arms that now rested on her bent knees at the edge of her bed. She knew that Michelle planned to take her to the mall. And it isn't the first time her friend spoke of doing it. And honestly, Rainy knew that she doesn't have the most _fashionable_ clothes—that comes with parents who either spend spare money on business or blow it on personal luxuries, getting most as hand-me-downs from cousins or from thrift stores.

But then again  
maybe it's because she never spoke up about it?

Either way, Michelle had gotten the gist of it even without knowing the exact details

"What does she want—Sherry?" Rainy asks, watching a collection of hand-me-downs hit the floor.

"I don't know." Michelle shrugs. "She's _your_ friend."

That part is true; Michelle and Sheryl, though both friends of the brunette, were two different people. Both rarely interacted with the other, and Rainy is left to whomever would pull her in their groups for however long that day, if even.

"I didn't ask anything else because I didn't want to be stuck hearing her yammering on and on." The comment is said bitterly and low to where it's easily misinterpreted. "Oh, this is cute!" Michelle holds up a bright green cropped top.

Rainy smirks. It came out quite bitterly. "What's with you and green," she tries to joke. It doesn't sound much like one.

Michelle smiles cheekily. It's her favorite color, Rainy remembers.

Now, it were days like this that she had to admit that she enjoyed, that were more relaxing. Rainy has tried—she attempts too hard to appear normal that's awkward—and it were days like this that it's good for her muscles to not have to be on guard constantly. It's when there weren't much to worry about, with more time to herself and less nonsense and drama to dance and lie around.

Rainy didn't get this a lot.

In between school, the time spent with those she calls friends, and being dragged to meetings and conferences by her father's campaign, peace and quiet came rare to the girl. That's probably why she doesn't put up an argue to go and confront the bubbly strawberry blonde the next day at school.

 **. . .  
. . .**

Sherry attaches to Rainy's arm as soon as she walks in the school the next day. Before she has a chance to open her mouth, Sherry's already chatting away about some babbling or another, the conversation quickly changing from a planned agenda to stuffed pandas from state fairs given as gifts to what she had for breakfast. Of course at this point, Rainy is barely listening.

The current class is English And Writing, and this class of students in particular is known for being one of the most rambunctious out of them all. That there were more talkative and rowdy students lumped together in this class than others could be thanked for that. It were those in particular who thought it fun to poke fun at the others around and to mock the teacher until his pink face flushes and he's ready to shout.

It's like two sides competing in battle of who could be the larger ass. The class doesn't receive many privileges because of this and rarely any extra credit opportunities. The two opposing "teams" throughout the class included some who considered themselves "big shots," a few who wore black leather jackets, one with neon sneakers, and another with grey hair.

Rainy looks up seeing Mr. Moore walking in the class. He places three large novels on his desk before moving to the podium at the front of the room.

From her seat, Rainy is able to see most of the classroom. Her gaze glides over the room. Almost everyone is talking amongst themselves. Then, her eyes fall upon a pair staring back at her—or in her general direction—from over the shoulder of a boy near the far right corner of the room. He had been placed there by the teacher himself near the beginning of the school year because he talked too much. The boy with grey hair raises a brow at her slightly as he continues talking amongst those near him and Rainy's frown is prominent on her face. Those that boy spoke with chuckle at a joke.

Why is he even staring in her general direction? What is it about her that he has to _whisper_ to them?

Rainy rolls her eyes, trying to make it clear in her body language that she doesn't want anything to do with him, and turns back forward to the front of the room. Sherry is still chatting away in her ear; Rainy isn't listening.

The boy watches Rainy for several seconds more before he too turns forward again, sucking his lip and eyes widening in an unspoken, negative comment.

Wanda shakes her head from her chosen seat in the back of the classroom.

Mr. Moore waits at his podium and the late bell rings. It takes almost two full minutes after for the classroom to begin lowering its voices—or as low as this class would get. Mr. Moore has a very brassy voice so it isn't difficult to talk over the students. He orders for all to get out a sheet of paper and a pen—today the class is going to begin touching on classic literature.

Most in the room either groan or begin complaining. The few who remained silent were Rainy and a girl with brown hair wearing a red hood.

Someone spoke out that they needn't do that again since they already have Juliet, from Shakespeare's work, sitting here with them. It had been meant for Rainy.

"Get into groups and you all will read the passages assigned and discuss the meaning among each other."

The class began to calm.

"And I will be assigning groups to make sure less of you all goof off."

The complaining returns.

Why did every teacher seem to like assigning groups?

Rainy listens silently as Moore's finger points and assigns groups at random. After, he informs the assigned work. After more talking and then taking role-call, desks and chairs screech as the groups came together.

Rainy is grouped with Sherry. And Rainy knew that she is of the few that the teacher liked (but not favored) due to quiet attitude and high performance. This is one of the reasons people call her weak, or a suck-up.

"Well at least we got paired together, right?" Sherry tries, and not waiting for an answer, "I don't know anything about...Lambourough...?" She tries to read the name in the textbook on the assigned page. "Never even heard of anything of these he wrote, have you? I can't even understand a single word here..." She now mumbles to herself, looking completely sullen.

Rainy knew that the other is getting tutored for this but she doesn't speak so. School hasn't been in particularly _difficult_ for her, given that it was the only thing she has a purpose for spending her time on, and that she could never get into anything else.

No matter how hard she has tried

 _just nope_

Rainy doesn't have any hobbies because of her curse

She does everything to keep herself busy so she isn't just sitting, waiting for the day to end

and then she was mostly ordered around by others anyway...

that comes with being without, as she is

Sherry perks up as their two partners approach the two's desks Sherry had scooted together. The strawberry blonde continues with her wide smile as both boys bring a chair to sit across them, one with blonde curls. Sherry's smile widens and her eyes began to sparkle. Rainy looks over from her to the curly blonde boy and to the one with grey hair.

She stares in almost annoyance as the second lazily drags a chair and flops at the front of her desk. The boy with grey hair bit the inside of his cheek, looking on at the strawberry blonde in annoyance. The way he had brought the chair made it clear that this is the last place he wishes to be.

Rainy would have kicked him in the leg.

"Well, I'm Sherry..." She places a hand on her chest, clearly enjoying this.

A social butterfly is an understatement about Sherry's openness

Rainy doesn't realize she's glaring—and at the boy in front of her—until she's thrown of balance by Sherry nudging her. The boy before her is focused on anything but the group. He looks to the clock, his own watch, the windows at the side of the room, eavesdropping on a nearby group, at Sherry's hair and Rainy, that the blonde beside him is a wannabe preppie, a fake imitation.

"What's your name?" Sherry folds her hands under her propped chin. It's as if she only has eyes for the blonde across from her.

Unlike her, the boy only glances up as he searches for the assigned page. "Uh, Ed," he answers.

The other beside him sighed loudly. His neck lolls over the back of the chair, and all eyes turn to him. He doesn't notice it right away, and when he does, he straightens his posture a bit.

 _A bit_.

"My name's Peter." He waves sarcastically before puffing his cheeks and rolling his eyes, turning his attention to something else.

Rainy wonders if she should pick him in the leg or tell that she couldn't work with him.

"Okay~ And this is Rainy. Everyone knows each other—good! Now, does anyone know what the heck this even means?" Sherry tries to break the awkwardness unsuccessfully.

Ed looks up at her, brows furrowing.

She becomes nervous. "O-or if no one does, w-we can try and figure it out...?"

He raises a brow.

The teacher speaks up then. "Everyone, you have the next fifteen minutes to come up with an interpretation and share it with class."

Sherry volunteers to speak. Ed explains his interpretation of the assigned passage reading. Both girls scribble notes on paper as they read, since Ed had already...until a finger-less gloved hand comes down on the top of Rainy's. Her pencil pauses but doesn't look up.

Peter is staring at her.

Rainy would have grown annoyed. She only looked up when hearing: "you were in Trevelyan's class last year, weren't you?" His voice is low, obviously not wanting the others to hear. Ed maybe; because it isn't like Sherry would have paid enough attention to anyhow.

Rainy eyes him, expression completely inexpressive.

"Yeah you were..." Peter remembers. He has an elbow folded under him on the desktop. He is leaning over her desk as well but neither a paper or pen of his own is nearby.

"What's it to you?"

"We were in the same class."

"So?"

He puckers his lips in thought.

She doesn't comment.

"You remember m—-" He breaks off, then decides to go with instead: "you remember that?"

She hesitates. "No. I don't remember that at all." She goes back to writing, missing the shock and then disappointment that flash across his features for a _millisecond_ and then he covers it up. "My memory doesn't exceed prior to this year. Before that, nothing." She speaks so calmly, as if this is just a normal conversation over breakfast or morning coffee, not something supposedly secret he's trying to hint at her. It doesn't click to her that it is.

"Is that how you got that burn on your arm then?" He tilts his chin. "Doesn't look like something from a fire burn..."

Her eyes dart in his direction.

If she could, she already would have started to not like him not one bit. The tension in their group spikes.

"Why would you want to know any of this anyway?" Her eyes shine almost dangerously. She notices his brows beginning to arch downward as she turns back to her paper.

Peter doesn't look away. "Because—-"

Ed interrupts then, calling for their attention to be directed toward the work, and "can your bickering and ass-wiping wait?" Peter retorts with a comment about panties up someone's ass and cooling jets.

Ed's cheeks flush. Rainy can't tell if it's from embarrassment or anger, and Sherry is left looking back and forth from both boys, somehow completely lost in the conversation going on around her.

Peter doesn't speak up at all during the rest of class that day. But before leaving, he did hold Rainy's gaze once more and gave a slight, sly grin.

She would run into him two days later, totally unexpected.

THE TENSION SPIKED

She probably wouldn't like that smile he had given her if she could.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Follow and Favorites only give a very vague ideas of people's thoughts. So please let me know what your think! Was it bad and crappy? Was it too long and obnoxious? Was it just ok? Don't hold back your words, please! Don't forget to review.**_


	4. the girl without memory i (Episode 2)

_**A/N: I'm giving the Maximoffs a history similar to that in the comics because when I first started writing this and planned it, it had been before Days of Future Past came to theaters. And my stubborn ass had already built a good amount of the characterization of the Maximoffs built around their background in the comics (and since there hadn't been any at the moment, and even after the films there is still barely any.)**_

* * *

A traveler

A basketcase

And a thief

This would typically be seen as an odd group of individuals by some, many wondering just how they got along, and that surely they must clash with each other too much.

They did, for sure—many times they did, but they made it work. They had to. After all, they were family.

From the first day Marya Maximoff laid eyes on the two tiny bundles swaddled in cloth, she had fallen in love with the twins. Her husband, on the other hand, had been more wary in acceptance at first. She couldn't blame him. From knowing their mother and hearing stories of who they guessed was the father, Marya understood his concern. But she also knew that the two were just human as well, they were innocent.

They were just infants

And upon Magda's dying words, Marya held in her heart as her duty that she would uphold the silent promise to keep them, to protect them, and grow them up into a fine man and woman. All went well despite the death of her close friend, and with the help of the others they traveled with—and of her husband, of course—they were able to manage.

And then her husband disappeared.

The once-headstrong Romani woman then suddenly crumbled; Marya was only twenty-four then. Scared and still young, she continued traveling with her family and Magda's twins, gaining reassurance and consultancy when needed. And slowly, but surely, Marya began returning to herself and was growing happy once more—after all, she had other lives to worry about now rather than just her own. All began piecing back together to normal again...and then the camp was attacked.

Many of the others split up, others had ran blindly or right into the enemy. Still, others had not been so lucky.

The twins were almost seven when it all happened. And needless to say, seeing what was once your home up in flames with the stench of everything burning is not a pleasant memory to keep.

Though Marya is thankful that she and the twins were able to get out alive, even it only being with the clothes on their backs and the necklace Marya's Nana had given her hours before the attack as good luck that she had held close to her chest.

It's ironic when you think about it. And that, sadly, she had to part with the jade necklace in order to make enough money to get them all by. And within almost half a year, they had managed to catch a flight to America, following stories told and hoping that they could make a better life there.

The rest is history, as can be figured out.

Not many of the others from their traveling family followed them across the seas.

Marya and the twins were homeless for a period of time until she found a decent job. She worked her way up, the twins grew strong, and as time passed, they all grew into a normal American family.

And then her daughter had been born, and the twins' powers began to emerge.

And then things took to a whole new level. On one hand, the woman couldn't be happier; on another, they had powers when in a world that hadn't shown much favor for. It also took babysitting to another step.

But still, Marya was happy. The twins provided much needed help with her new daughter which came difficult from her job's uneven hours. More than once, they have shown empathy towards her and have offered to help find ways for coming up with money. Marya had always shot them down, but still, there were incidents when money would randomly disappear and reappear in her purse, and there was twice with a "misunderstanding" with her bank account that a large sum had suddenly appeared, and then disappeared soon after. She knew that it all was in good intentions, but it was increasingly challenging to raise super-powered children in secrecy.

Magda would have been proud

But of course, as typical when raising any children, as the years when by, things began to change. But Marya couldn't complain—she had a well-paying job, three beautiful children, good health, a roof over their heads and food to eat.

Wanda is somewhat a quiet girl who doesn't like confrontation, and Peter always seems to seek attention.

While her brother gave into his abilities, his impulsiveness, she became afraid and tried to control hers.

Marya's own daughter is just a bubbly, pink-loving tyke.

Wanda is somewhat the family's peacekeeper. And Marya saw that as her abilities began to appear, Wanda buried more into her shell.

Wanda is the somewhat quiet child. Peter, on the other hand...

 _* Knock Knock Knock Knock ! *_

 _"Peter! Why are the cops here? What did you do!"_

* * *

Meisha is one who can be called intuitive. Ever since she was very small, she has had an uncanny ability to identify one's true emotions or intentions no matter how buried or denial they were in. It was like something that was like second nature to her, and it wasn't until she was eight years old did her parents realize that it was the product of a mutation rather than just "strange coincidences."

This ability has followed her since, and with her now in high school it only became more troublesome.

This ability is one that she finds odd, especially given that both of her parents and known family, as far as she knew, were all normal. And at first, she hadn't wanted it, despised her abilities. Meisha felt isolated, abnormal, vulnerable, and alone despite her parents' indifference of their showing of affection over her. Her parents were indifferent about her mutation, knowing it didn't change her from being their daughter.

To this day, Meisha hasn't fully welcomed it—she has just come to accept her mutation.

This had been evident in the way she carries herself, the low volume she speaks in, and in her timid attitude. She would shy away from any contact, not wanting to have the sense of their thoughts and wants crowding her mind—it's nearly impossible to hold in and get rid of when other's were inquired, and it usually led to her blurting out intentions that most would have wanted to keep secret. Because of this, the friends she had in the past hadn't lasted very long, and those that had stayed, eventually they moved away anyhow.

Her parents shower her with as much appreciation they could offer, treating her no different than if she hadn't gained a mutation. But it began growing difficult to muster a smile and approving attitude when their child would only sulk and frown.

The day her parents expressed this to her, which was followed by another event happening later that month at school, was when her second mutation surfaced. And to this day, Meisha hasn't uttered a word to any soul of the shock and the blood that had covered the tile and school bathroom floor that day.

And then Meisha isolated herself, and kept her hair tied in a braid to prevent the event it from repeating.

Her hair was the first thing that young Peter Maximoff commented on when meeting her for the first time. There was no "hello" or even some excuse about the weather. His first comment had been straightforward: "Your hair is freaky long! And so red...is that natural?!"

And Meisha had stared back at him, mouth hung open in an unsure drone. She lowered her hand from the top of her hair from fiddling with her hairpins. "Yes..." she drew out the word, unsure of his motives. "This is the color I was born with. At least, I'm moderately sure it wasn't changed when I was a baby..." she added with sarcasm.

"Why do you keep it in a braid?"

"Because I like it."

"So you never thought about doing something else with it? I don't know, like pin it up in a really cool, weird style or in twists or something. Be creative. 'Cause just one braid is boring. Lame. ...You know, it'd make a really cool mullet!"

Meisha had frowned. "I do it because I have to. Besides," her eyes began to burn from the start of tears. She didn't quite like this, "what are you to say? Isn't that just a bad dye job your mom did?"

He had laughed and then asked, "can you, like, wrap it around yourself or use it to carry something or tie something up with it..." He turned to a singsong voice. "Can you tie it in a knot can you tie it in a bow?!"

She paused. "Why do you ask so many questions!?"

To her annoyance, he just smirked and looked at her from the corner of his eye. "I kinda like you, you know... you're funny."

And since that day, they have stuck together.

"And by the way, your hair makes the braid kinda cool."

Meisha's parents were also happy that she has come to accepting herself more and her powers since. ...And mainly, it had to do with her being able to identify with others like herself.

And once she revealed her ability to emotion-read, Peter had only grown more excited. It helped her become more comfortable with having someone else who was just as weird as her.

A few monts later, they would meet Ronny.

Peter

Meisha

Ronny

Just the three of them, together. That's how it's always been, and that is how they are now.

* * *

Meisha follows after Peter down the school hall, all but jogging to keep up with his quick pace. She asks for him to slow down as she fought against the stream of students hurrying the opposite way.

"Can't," he answers simply, pushing through a group of girls with teased hair.

The students soon thin out and Meisha is able to sprint to his side. "Then you mind telling me exactly what we're doing this time?"

Only a smile gracing his face is her answer. Meisha looks over her shoulder nervously seeing the hall quickly empty the further they walk. That's one of those mischievous smirks he wears, when he's up to something that would most likely, on the norm, get them detention, scolded, or someone dunked in a trashcan.

"No time."

He hurries around a corner and Meisha has to put in unnecessary effort just to stay behind him. Here, around the corner, the halls were entirely clear.

"Then what exactly will we need?" She watches him glance around and then speed further down the hall to a locker, spinning the combination lock. Meisha runs up to peer over his shoulder just as he pulls the locker door open.

"A toothpick. Duct tape. Screwdriver. A bag. Rope. And lots and lots of bleach. And plastic wrap." He's handing her the said materials, pulling them out one by one. "The bleach can wait 'til next time. The plastic wrap now."

"And so you need me for...the screwdriver part...?"

He nods. "And the rope." He shuffles papers aside as if looking for something else.

Meisha sighs heavily to herself and refusing to smile. Peter seems to always find a way to drag her in one of his schemes, seeming to like using her mainly as a resource because of her power.

But secretly she liked it  
She didn't mind

And Meisha could already feel her braid twitching, the end barely brushing against the back of her knees and she curls her hands into fists. Why did she insist on this boy, she questions herself, seemingly for the umpteenth time.

He searches more through the mess of loose-leaf pages. "And how long is this supposed to take?" she faintly worries.

"Don't worry yourself. It's just going to take a couple seconds. Minutes, maybe."

"That's what you said last time. You know that it isn't good for Ronny to be in crowds alone."

Their friend, Ronny, doesn't like crowds or any group gatherings because that's how he discovered his mutation, one day almost blending in completely to the building right next to his parents.

TERRIFYING

PANIC

His mutation always happened when he s nervous. Especially in crowds.

"You guys go on ahead. Just hurry back," Ronny sucked his lip, telling them almost twenty minutes ago.

Peter lets the locker door close on its own and speeds around her and began continuing down the hallway, still that same up-to-no-good smirk on his face. "He'll be _fine_!" Peter focus is straight ahead.

Meisha has to rush back to his side. She worries about just how long has he been plotting this. When she asks this out loud, it makes him pause, eyes shift, and give the most suspicious "not long" answer to record. Meisha shuffles the things in her arms. She calls for help, feeling them slipping from her grasp. He seems almost surprised—completely forgetting about it.

He plucks the roll of plastic wrap from her and hikes it under his arm. The duct tape is stuck between his teeth. Meisha keeps open the large bag and he hides the tape under his jacket and she bites her lip catching his shirt rise in the effort.

"And so what's gonna be done with all those?" She knew that there's no use trying to diverge his mind now.

"Well, first, I'm gonna need you to take out all the screws in Dean Picardy's office. That's step one. Then, I have this plan that by the next assembly, to make the principle's pants fall apart by using enough bleach..."

 ** _. . ._**

It is the students in their grade year and those the year above who were packed into the gymnasium for yet another mandatory assembly. It seems the more fights, misconduct, and pranks that have been increasingly occurring required a mandatory assembly by the principle's arrangements.

In the classrooms when the assembly had first been announced over the intercom, Meisha already guessed that the steel-haired mutant behind her had aided in the cause of it. He had looked up and stared ahead, remaining that way until their classmates begun packing at the end of the period. She had watched as he smirked slyly, turned to Ronny, spoke something too low to hear and stood from his chair to leave ago long with the students. She continued on with Peter, pausing for a moment as Ronny diverged to keep watch during the assembly. That was part of the plan.

And in the bleachers there is where the two found him as Peter slinks into the gym, ignoring the eyes from the teachers about his tardiness. Meisha pauses before going inside behind him. And just as she suspects, Ronny's sitting and rubbing his forearms in-between his knees, eyes shifting and feet bouncing nervously.

In the gym, Peter puffs his cheeks in a sigh, sliding into the space next to the taller teen and Ronny almost immediately calms and returns to normal.

"How long was that?" Peter rubs his hands together, still riding out the last of his burst of adrenaline. He enjoys this, testing his limits and dancing between the lines. It gave him a rush when his powers weren't allowed. That's why he's wearing this proud, self-satisfied grin.

"Just over seven minutes," Ronny answers, glancing at his wristwatch. He exhales a shaky sigh. "Would we need to run again? ...Uh, and I got that camera's in my bag."

"No need." The other licks his lips, pushing down a beaming smile that wants to push through. "Just wait for fourth period history and it's sure to be announced." He eases into his seat.

The administrator in the middle of the gym is talking about the new punishments for tardiness. Meisha's face burns, knowing their insinuating is directed towards her and Peter.

The gym doors swing open and slam shut as three pale boys enter.

Good. So now they wouldn't be the only ones scolded.

"So, uh…what's all this about?" Peter points with his chin towards the school dean who steps forward, and who is tapping the mic.

A splitting screech echoes through the room. The entire gymnasium covers their ears until the mic's feedback passes.

"Ah, you just missed a "very useful" speech on the need to stop harassment and bullying the need to _stop_ bullying," Ronny answers sarcastically and with a sigh. "It isn't going to work. One on upcoming tests, and there was one on the importance of peer pressure. Now I think they're going to be saying something about that lunchroom fight you started last time." Ronny gestures to the adults below and gives pointed looks at the teen beside him.

Peter turns. "Hey, that fight wasn't entirely _my_ fault. I didn't even start it anyway that _jerk-off_ did!"

Ronny snickers and bumps his shoulder. He knew and is only joking.

The dean at the microphone continues. He speaks that there will be the upcoming Spirit Week and the usual fundraiser booths coordinated by the student government's senior president. Unnecessary enthusiasm added.

Ronny smirks at the mention of Spirit Week. Peter smiles for other reasons. Meisha continues frowning on the seat below them.

Spirit Week is just an excuse by those on the student government to raise money. Despite, it's worked almost every time. People enjoy the small games, the laxer dress code, competition between teachers and classrooms.

The senior president is a guy who has won grade representative and a position on the student council in all his years of high school.

Then, the dean announces that in honor of this year's anniversary, there will be a competition among the class of this grade to get the highest attendance wins free pizza coupons. To a majority of the students, being on time is nonessential, so the dean decided to attempt to manipulate them this year. And of course the offer of free food grabs attention. There would also be a three-dollar admission to a movie showing in the gym.

"Oh really…" Peter perks at this, yet another idea already formulating in his mind, and he smirks. "...So... basically a great time to ask out Mckenzie..." He rubs his hands together, speaking more to himself.

No one catches Meisha rolling her eyes or her small snarl.

"Pffft!" Ronny had overheard and sticks out his chin.

Peter is staring not too far off at a laughing brunette in a red bandanna headband and light blue jumpsuit. Seeing this, Ronny sighs slightly, shaking his head, and grimaces.

"And how exactly do you possibly think that could go about—successfully—without slipping, butterfingers? You know how she is, and that she's never alone." Ronny glances up just in time to catch the girl in question lean over and brush her lips along the jaw of a boy seating beside to her. Peter had already turned back ahead and hadn't seen. That had to be Mckenzie's current squeeze and Ronny worries that his friend just wouldn't understand…

"That's what everyone says. You don't know that for sure," Peter defends.

"Uh huh, sure." Ronny's gaze then drifts to a light haired brunette seating not too far away from Mckenzie. Unlike the first, this one isn't smiling at all. "Besides," Ronny jokes, "what about Miss Frigid; weren't you just trying to get her life story a few days ago."

The other follows his friend's line of sight. Rainy is settled between that steadily talking strawberry blonde from English class and one of the school's star ball players. Peter wonders how the girl isn't showing signs of discomfort from being wedged next to the dark player.

"Oh, her?" He points. "What about her?"

Ronny raises a brow.

"Yeah I asked about her; so what? It's nothing serious."

"So what?" and Ronny chuckles. The comment had probably been meant for himself.

Peter's blank look doesn't change upon the mention of the other, despite being one of the school's most popular names.

"You're serious about this?"

A crease forms between Peter's light-colored brows. He glances above once more when he's certain his friend isn't looking and caught Rainy rubbing her arm. Her hand ran over the same area where she had been burnt over a year ago. He wonders is she remembered he had been there when it happened.

"What's that's supposed to mean? You don't think I can do it?" He turns around, speaking rapidly. He means asking out Mckenzie, a feat in itself that would be considered a miracle by any under-aged male.

Ronny scoffs. "I know you wouldn't be able to do it."

Then Peter half sneers, half smirks. He begins thinking of a comeback. In front of them, Meisha shakes her head.

"…Gonna start being just like her," she mutters, and pauses before peeking over her shoulder.

"Exactly! Thank you, Meisha! Dude, you aren't gonna last. Now, with asking her out—maybe you'd be successful. But dude, you know Mckenzie was with a _nineteen year old_ before, and just last year she broke up with that senior guy right before graduation from after, like, two years. You do remember that, right?"

"Yeah? And so what do—-"

"Okay then, I rest my case." Ronny holds out his palms as if to make his point. "Go ahead and do what you gotta, but I think it's dangerous to have mess with her."

"You think it's dangerous if you take a shit without telling your mom."

"I do not! I—-" The taller one gapes, struggles for words.

Meisha rolls her eyes, turning forward. Peter raises a brow.

"Dude…what about the jeans she made you—-"

"That was one time!"

The two boys stealing on Ronny's other side glance over with questioning stares. Peter is snickering.

Ronny purses his lips, slaps his hands on his thighs. "Fine. Fine. But all I'm saying is that it-it's not smart to try and go around with two girls on your hands, alright? First Mckenzie I-I guess I understand, and then you're all over Capulet—-"

Two-timing

Meisha's brows shoot up and she turns around to stare.

The bridge of Peter's nose winkles. "Dude, what? No! I'm not trying to say it like that in _that way_. No—just no. What the hell anyway—-!"

"Alright~" Ronny places a hand on his chest in mock concern. "I was worried that I'd might have to start digging your grave for you early." He grins seeing his friend's frown.

"He'll never do it anyway," Meisha muttered into her knuckles. "Mckenzie is too..how do I say this nicely? ...Too _way up there_ to reach." She raises her fist to emphasis a bar. "She's just...no."

Peter's frown deepens. "Well who asked you anyway?"

Ronny catches her eye and smiles. "I agree with Meisha. She's way out of your league." This earns the gray-haired teen to turn on him now. "Besides, I hear Juliet's a hard one to crack, doesn't speak to hardly anyone and it's worse if she does. It'd be a miracle if anyone even found just what her problem was..." he muses about Rainy. "Doesn't mean she's any better, though."

"Not really. I've talked to her before," Peter shrugs. His head tilts a little to each side as he lists off: "A little cold, somewhat talkative, all around snappy." He smirks shakes. He then shook his head in sympathy, sucking his teeth. "She's not your type."

"Oh, _my_ type?" Ronny chuckles. "I'm not sure just whose type she is, but all I'm saying is that Mckenzie would be too much to handle." He smirks, knowing he was only irking his friend. His words were true, however. "You know how many guys she turns down _a day_?" he exaggerates. "And, I think Juliet over there would be easier...for someone who doesn't mind getting their ears bitten off."

Meisha tilts her head and adds to the teasing. "You're saying it like you heard this all like facts or something from somewhere."

"I'm saying it 'cause I know," Ronny answers. "And that I did hear it from somewhere. 'Cause I bet he couldn't do it anyway."

Peter looks Ronny in the eye. His brows arch, tempted. "Is that a challenge I'm hearing?"

The other pauses for a moment to think it over. Whenever Ronny has let down from a bet or challenge with him, Peter would hold it over his head for days, weeks even. Or however long the chicken bawks and snide comments would last until he gets bored. So, not wanting to destroy his own ego, Ronny inhales, squares his jaw, and puffs his chest. "Yeah…yeah it is. I'll even pay ya." Now he had the speedster's attention.

Peter is intrigued. "How much are we talking?"

"Well, I'm talkin' about the forty you're gonna be paying me when Mckenzie still be on her ex by the time of the gym movie showing, and Capulet chews you out by then. But you have to last until then."

Peter's brows raise, looking impressed. "Oh! " He smiles. "Challenge excepted!"

By now, Meisha's insides are churning. She had been hoping that Peter wouldn't agree to it, but that was impossible, knowing him. The end of her braid twitches and her hand reaches to squeeze it to keep it still. She wipes her look of shock and replaces it with narrowed eyes. She didn't like this; she has a bad feeling about this.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Yeah I know a bet is a very stupid thing to do, and most people today know better, but generation ago many didn't think that way. There won't be any cruel tropes because of this. Please work with me here**_


	5. the girl without memory ii (Episode 2)

_**A/N: This is the first of a few combined chapters, which were chapter that had been split into two or three shorter parts, but I now combined them in one to lessen the sum of chapters. The other combined chapters tend to have a slash separating the two once-singular titles**_

* * *

Rainy doesn't groan but she presses the wad of tissues to her nose with so much force that she should be.

Three minutes. Almost three whole minutes she's been sitting out here in the hall bleeding like crazy. It has been three minutes too long than she should be here. She is also losing her class time...

Rainy pulls the tissue back, sees that it is soaked with red, and sighs. Her head softly thuds against the white concrete wall behind her. Luckily, the pressure she had been applying to stop her nosebleed had seemed to help lessen the flow, it is still bleeding a significant amount, but still she needs help. At this point, she's going to need a new shirt _and_ a trip to the hospital.

Rainy is waiting in a chair outside the school nurse's office. A student had been called inside five minutes ago. She suspects the faint sobs heard minutes ago as them. She also knows that it would be a squeeze for anymore than three in the divided section of the office inside. In the other space is a desk and a sickly student sleeping on a cot.

But still, this wait had been going on for much too long than it should. But she's lucky that her head isn't spinning just yet.

Rainy glances between the wad of tissues again and sees that it is almost completely soaked with blood in a matter of the passes few minutes. The halls are clear due to it being the middle of class. The hall monitors were gone and the nearby water fountain unoccupied so there is no chance to be seen and have another claim tacked on to her reputation—not that she particularly _cared_ , of course. Rainy throws the bloodied tissue in a bin across the way and scurries back to her seat, and before anyone could see, makes herself a tissue-walrus.

She begins mocking to herself: " _Come outside,_ Sherry said. _It's just a little hot, we won't be out that long,_ she said." She rolls the tissues between her palms.

It's around ninety-eight degrees and climbing when Rainy had been persuaded by Sherry to skip class to be with her again, this time outside in the school's field for P.E. Thinking that she would there only as someone for the strawberry blonde to talk to and that she would leave relatively soon, Rainy had thought nothing of it. It was when Sherry insisted that Rainy stay for the entire gym class _and_ participate did things take an unexpected turn: Sherry wanted Rainy to accompany her out in the blazing sun while Rainy is in _denim_. In order to stay, Rainy would have to participate in the class, even when she wasn't wearing the clothes for it. And the P.E. class were to flip a tractor's tire across the field today—Rainy with _no shorts_ in almost _ninety-eight degrees_ weather.

"You'll be fine. You're wearing a skirt, just take off the jean jacket," Sherry had told.

The temperature seemed to remarkably escalate as time went by. The coach doesn't care if students skipped to the P.E. class as long as her own students were attending and participating.

When Sherry had merely been sweating out in the heat, Rainy was bent over her long jean skirt gasping for breath. Sherry was the one who noticed the red droplets on the grass; she put a hand on Rainy's shoulder and asked if she was ok and had practically panicked when she saw the deep flush of Rainy's face and the thick lines of blood trailing down to the girl's lips.

Rainy doubts she'd be allowed to skip to that class again, even when she would lie that she had been in her assigned class at the time of the incident. She is certain that she wouldn't be allowed back into Sherry's class by how quickly the coach ushered everyone inside following Sherry's small freak-out.

And now she is waiting her turn in the nurse's with an excuse to call for a ride to the hospital, bleeding to death.

All students are in the middle of class, she suspects, aside from the occasional wanderer or someone with a bathroom pass. And the hall monitor. Can't forget the hall monitor. Most had their heads stuck so far up their butts with power. Rainy eyes a lanky ginger from the other end of the long hall. There's a sash slugged over his torso. He hesitates, as if debating to pull out the notepad in his back pocket. He continues on his way instead. She changes out the tissues in her nostrils, making sure to squeeze the bridge if her nose for more pressure to ease the flow.

The seat outside the nurse's is a long, painted bench against insipid white walls. Almost ironically, the bench is placed between the nurse's and one of the dean's offices.

Rainy looks to the clock high on the wall behind her. It's going on nine minutes now. Nine consecutive, critical minutes and her head should be beginning to throb. Too bad she couldn't feel it… Her fingers return to the bridge of her nose and presses. She hopes that she is adding enough pressure. Because there is a steadily continuous banging coming down the corner from the right hallway. She turns; it is someone trailing a hand on the locker doors, slamming the open ones closed, causing the loud echoing as the culprit jogged to her direction.

She sees black shades and silver Vans. Rainy catches sight of a head of familiar gray hair and her deadpan expression doesn't change. She watches the boy hurry down the tile hallway and seems to be staring off at the distance. The pair of dark shades contrast with his hair and makes it difficult to determine just _what_ he's looking to; a hand of his rests in one pocket of his jeans.

Rainy holds her hands over her nose, hiding the tendrils behind a clean wad of tissue. And she turns away, turning her back to his general direction, and pulls both tissues out, wondering if the blood flow has slowed and if he would just pass on by. She'd be damned if she let _him_ see her that way.

She blinks.

He reaches for something at the top of the lockers, and she peeks over her shoulder just in time to catch his dark unbuttoned shirt flutter along to the disperse of loose papers he shoves, fluttering to the floor behind him. He's wearing a white tank top underneath.

She blinks.

As he nears, he plucks something—a toothpick?—from between his teeth, runs fingers through his light hair, slowing to remove his shades catching the same hall monitor glaring at him. Peter shoots him a quick finger-gun.

She blinks.

The boy pays no attention to anyone around, one earphone in of his Sony Walkman to help block out the world. He bobs his head along with the beat of the current song playing.

Rainy would have turned her nose up at his approach. But instead, she adjusts in the seat so he could barely be able to see a quarter of her face. And she fumbles a little with jamming the remaining clean tissues into her sweater pocket.

The boy plops down on the bench and pulls out a stress ball he had stolen from his teacher once. His head bobs at least four more times, rapidly. So, he too didn't notice the other until after several tosses of the ball, one going particularly too high and he'd have to jump to his feet to catch it—when he reaches a little too far to the right and—that he notices the other's presence at the other end of the bench and turns away.

Peter pauses—it's a girl—before realizing it it's _the_ same girl from English class. Her name starts with an R, he thinks. She's mocked for her name and is referred to as Juliet, he recalls. Peter stretches his arms out; his left fiddles with the spongy stress ball. He debates whether to begin saying something to her or to leave her be. But both are seated at opposite ends of the bench...

And he inhales...

"Fancy seeing you here."

The hallway remains silent.

"So, uh, Juliet...what're _you_ here for? Cheated on a test? You received too many tardies?" It's almost like he's mocking her by his tone.

Somewhere off in the school halls, the echo of a slammed locker door reaches them.

"You know," Peter wets his lips. "I always thought you to be someone who's _too good_ to do anything like this—anything _bad_ , I mean. Never got into a fight either, huh, I bet. What, you get all the boys to fight for you? Seems typical, ain't it?"

She turns to him without the slightest sound and an unwavering stare.

Peter merely watches her and stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets, slouching. He wiggles almost impatiently, adjusting himself. "They _do_ say that there's a girl here who seemed to get a kick out of blowing off those who try talking to her," he continues, and pauses. "Says that she's all hard 'nd crap and she doesn't like talking to people, like no one's good enough..." He tries swallowing his grin but it comes back full-force. "Sounds like a real hard-on to me. Hey," he jerks his chin in her direction; she's staring off instead of at him. "You don't happen to _heard_ this girl, do you? She sounds so wound up and I wonder...if her boyfriend has slid her the _hot beef injection_ yet..." He then opens his mouth as if just remembering something, but it too is only sarcasm. "Oh, that's _right_! That's _you_ , isn't it!"

Rainy raises a brow, still not looking his way.

Peter continues, beginning on a different topic. "You know, I too heard of someone— this guy who got suspended for cracking one—punching one of the coaches in the face. You know, the one that one who just got fired. How crazy is that, the psycho. ..But then again, there's also this girl I heard of who got suspended for doing something like it... I think. Not you, of course." And he scoffs. " _You_ probably wouldn't ever do something like that, would you, Juliet?"

His attention is then taken as he catches the sight of blood when he looks over at her. "I know I'm handsome but _damn_. Those must be really _filthy_ thoughts to have a nosebleed already," his arrogant grin shines through again.

"As if," she grumbles behind the tissues pressed under her nose. "Any thoughts like that would be considered quite irrational and ridiculous to someone like me. Besides, given the current selections here, I would have to pick...no deal."

The corners of his lips waver. He watches as she sniffs, turns away, pulls something from her pocket and then walks over to the trash bin. When she returns, her face is clean once more.

Peter pauses. He tosses the ball in the air a couple times. "So Juliet, what'd you get called up here for?"

There's a hesitance in the air.

"The nurse's," she answers.

He mouth opens in a silent _"ahh."_ Then, "for what? A broken arm, sprained ankle, ruptured spleen...some _boo-boo_ you got?"

No answer.

"Or you're just going to call _Daddy_ to come and get you out of class?" he mocks.

She glances at him from the corner of her eye. He's smiling, pleased with himself.

Almost everyone knew her father, so that comment had been expected.

"It's none of your business."

He hesitates, grin wavering. "...Fair enough." He poked his lip out a little, shrugs. "Guess I just had my hopes up too high for someone like you, huh?"

She looks back at him, still refusing to turn around completely. "Someone like me...? What would anyone with the likes of you know anything as that; you do realize that you are talking to a stranger, don't you? You don't truly know anything about me."

He then laughs a little. "Yeah—no. I've heard the rumors."

"The rumors?" She cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed.

His smile is gone by now. "The rumors."

She's still unconvinced.

"The rumors of the girl with a mouth so bad it makes everyone runs for the hills. They say that she's almost a teacher's pet and puts up a face to everyone and all just because her _daddy's_ probably going to be the _head of town_. She acts stiff, mean, and a hard nut you crack, you know—all the typical symptoms of the diagnosis _virgin_." He's smiling widely to himself now. A hand rests on his thigh and he's turned fully towards her. "Or, if you can even _remember_ that," he adds in a snarky manner. He's waiting for her to bite, to snap back and maybe stomp off in a huff as so many usually do—those of higher school social status, that is.

Rainy adjusts her seating, making sure to leave her back to him and now _much_ space between them. She remains quiet as her eyes run over the boy across to her. "Is that so?" she tests. "And how trustworthy are those words coming from someone with such a big ego and without the little friend to match?"

Peter's smile falters. His lips set in a line.

LIES

RUMORS

FALSE

"You are just as inexperienced, given yourself to talk." She turns away again and begins toying with the ends of her hair. Her mother had it permed a week ago and it now hung straight. "So, it _is_ true that you are some kind of stalker, that one with silver hair?" she tests with her own brutal venom. There's a trickle of blood that is falling from her nostril. "I bet that in the morning, if you squint, you might look older than you truly are, I'd presume. With your hair and all." She remains expressionless the entire time.

Rainy sniffs to make sure no blood has fallen and doesn't know that it doesn't work. She looks toward the nurse's door; it should be opening soon, the previous student's session having been finished.

Peter is now staring at her with a hardened look.

"Juliet—you also went to Winchester Middle School too, right? Moved here about four years ago? Was in Mr. Trevelyan's science class last year? By the way, why _do_ they call you weak and complicated? I mean, judging by you, you don't look like anything's wrong. 'Cause I remember that back in Mr. Trevelyan's class—-"

"Don't ask questions if you can't handle the consequences of having that information."

 _Was that a threat?_

Peter's brows furrow. A pause hangs in the air.

"What's your deal, Juliet?" He squints. He's now fully turned toward her with a leg folded across the other. His grin slowly returns, more arrogant than before. "Because it seems like you are just one _tough shell_." She holds up one finger in the air. "First, it isn't Juliet, stalker. For someone who supposedly knows a lot about people, you sure are poor at it, missing the most small and important details," she mocks. "Two, don't go around acting like you genuinely want to know about everyone, because I'm sure that you have unresolved personal issues as well." She lowers her fingers and now points her index at his exposed white t-shirt, at his chest. "Anyhow, that still does not justify your actions of deliberately jumping to a conclusion and judging based on feeble and exaggerated words by people who's it's there only legacy."

He's frowning. "So are you saying I'm lying?" It isn't spoken as a question, but he really is curious.

She sees drops of blood fall to her arm, pulls out another rumpled tissue to clean her face. She should probably be feeling lightheaded by now. "I'm neither saying that you are nor you aren't." She still has her back to him and only looks over her shoulder. "All I am saying is that anyone smart enough would not fall to believing any rumors. ...But then again, you are a part of the C-crew, aren't you?"

The C-crew is the nickname dubbed to the students lumped together who could never seem to get out of the C-average grading range.

Rainy is no longer looking to him.

Peter's eyes rake over the girl's back in front of him, contemplating on just how to respond to this. At least he wouldn't have to deal with her judgmental glare.

Word here sure goes around fast

He breathes, folds his hands and leans in her direction. He lips part, he contemplates on whether to respond. "Don't take this the wrong way but you're as cold as ice with an attitude like a cactus." He's trying to hold back a snarl. "Why _are_ you so cold?"

"Again, don't ask questions you do not want to find the answers to."

Her tone is so calm...and it's beginning to irritate him extremely.

"Anyway, from someone with the likes of you, I'm surprised that you would even be here, bothering to talk with someone as higher up the scale as I am. Didn't you say that I'm too stiff for your liking because of my father's position?"

Now that was just insulting...

Rainy's brows rise. "What? Where you going to attempt at asking one of those vulgar come-ons?"

He didn't answer.

She raises a hand to her mouth, eyes wide as if in surprise. "Did I beat you to the punch?" Her concern is fake. "Oops."

By this point, Peter is wearing a studying glare. Just what game is she trying to play at, he wonders.

"Well, that's one thing off your troubles." She almost sighs. "Anyway, I'm sure that a guy like you would have something better to do that try to hit on a girl. ...Well, it's hoped that one would have something better to do with time than going to the principal's."

"Oh, so now you're switching up? Jumping to conclusions are you? A little hypocritical, isn't it? I'm hurt, Juliet."

So now they were on the same level of sass

Another silence follows them.

She just stares.

And he doesn't look away.

It continues on for some time—a pregnant pause in the air—to the point of irritation for him—until—

"Do not try to be all nice with me," she speaks, wiping at her nose again. The tissue is almost completely soaked with blood. "Any attempt will be feeble and useless and it would save a lot of your trouble and unwanted prying. We can't be friends. So," she points to him again," stay away from me." Her hand drops with a loud bang at her side that must have hurt. Yet, she doesn't flinch. "You should feel lucky, grateful even—I'm letting you off nicely. The last Neanderthal had the impudence to question me to _jump_ on him one weekend," she wraps her arms around herself as if she felt hurt, "in such ungraceful vulgarity."

"Well I don't even know the _definition_ of impudence," he admits. "But I can _guarantee_ that some are passed the stage of Neanderthals." He pauses. It seemingly only for a second. "And that you _did_ beat me to it," he tells, only to see her turn away again.

Rainy folds her arms. "Typical." She points her gaze down the hallway, _opposite_ of him.

"Wh—-That's not what I—-"

"If you don't have anything intellectual or _worth_ the _time_ to say, it would save you the trouble, as well as those around who would have to put up with that inadequacy going into their ears, that to just not say it at all."

"I'm all about time!"

He didn't know "adequacy" either...

"And I'm—-"

Rainy's attention is taken to the door, hearing the screeching of chairs inside. She stands when the door swung open. There's a purple hair-clip on the side of her hair that is threatening to slip. He bits his lip and thinks he should tell her.

Peter had stopped mid-sentence. He watches as a blonde exits the room, wiping away stray tears.

Rainy focuses on the nurse inside, greets, and slinks inside the office. The nurse immediately begins to rush seeing blood pouring from the girl's nose. The door shuts as Rainy is calmly explaining that a trip to the hospital is needed.

Exactly one minute later, Peter is sitting back with crossed arms. He bites the inside of his cheek as the dean across from him laces together his sausage fingers atop a stack of paperwork. When the teen is called in, he is accused of several misdemeanors and all of the sudden malfunctions and defacing in the teachers' lounge. This including some suddenly-missing personal items—a missing collector's mug, plastic wrap on the toilet seats, and all the screws missing to the entire office desk and chair belonging to a teacher he _coincidently_ has. Peter merely sits with his arms across the back of the seat and a leg propped across a knee, trying to hold back a telling smirk.

The man could complain as much as he wants, but there's no way he can ever prove the boy had done it. And that fact just made this meeting _that_ much better for him.

 **. . .  
** **. . .**

Later that day, Rainy wouldn't know but she crosses paths with the speedster again. It's when he had been in the library with Meisha that he overhears that strawberry blonde, Sherry, speaking about a _mission_ to meet back in the school during after-hours.

Peter had smiled to himself. This would give him the perfect opportunity to get back at that teacher who had sent him to the dean's office. He could slip in and out of the school building—because there's no way in otherwise—without anyone noticed.

This "mission" is to commence in a few days, at the start of next week. And that gave him more than enough time to plan.

* * *

"...It kinda sucks that the movie would only be shown in the gym," Sherry sighs. "They should have shown it in the field like I heard they did last time...I was really hoping to be more alone with Edwin..."

Rainy glances over. "Edwin?" She is only partially paying attention, keeping ahead of the other.

Sherry looks up, a look of disappointed confusion. "The cute one in English class, remember?"

Rainy only blinks in answer.

"He's the _blonde_ with _curly hair_. He was in our group for the poetry stuff," she explains further.

Rainy remembers now.

"Anyways... _in fact_ , I think that we've been talking enough and hitting it off." She's smiling to herself. "But then...the gym shouldn't be a problem and really matter..."

Knowing Sherry, Rainy already knows that unless Edwin is a talkative one (which he hadn't been), Sherry must have been and would be doing most if not all of the conversation. Edwin also appears to be the type who prefers a _book_ over a talkative _person_. But of course, Rainy couldn't tell her friend this, knowing how sensitive the strawberry blonde is.

Sherry always tends to look on the brighter side of things  
regardless almost any situation

Sherry steps beside her. They were currently roaming the empty school halls in the weekend afternoon. She shook the spray-can in her hand and the sound of the ball inside seems to echo down the walls. Rainy notices sees from the corner of her eye her friend approach; she also notes the sound. For once, Sherry is dressed down, wearing a large dark blue shirt and denim pants that she's ready to dirty. Rainy's throw-away clothes is just in another tie-dye randomly pulled from her closet.

"Where should we start?" Sherry peeks in the window to a random classroom. Without waiting for an answer, she jiggles the knob and finds it locked.

Rainy shrugs. She sees Sherry open her mouth to respond but then jump at a the echo of a screech somewhere off. Sherry's head whips from her friend to both ways down the hall. It looks like she wanted to ask if Rainy had heard but keeps quiet instead—it had sounded almost like tires halting against asphalt.

She quickly straightens; she swallows her growing fear.

Rainy suggests putting up a banner. Sherry nods in approval, taking the lead to get ahead—she's obviously spooked, Rainy notices. The two agree to go in search for the supply room in the art classroom.

The front school lawn is freshly cut and unblemished by litter. Remnants of childish pranks and graffiti weren't able to be scrubbed off completely. The halls were emptied and swept, and all the doors locked. They located the school electrical system first, turning on all of the lights. According to both's parents, the girls were out at the mall with a few friends, and Rainy's father hasn't been home for several weeks anyway, so it didn't much matter.

There were several others who the two girls had snuck aside with during the school after-hours to prepare for the coming Spirit Week, to set up the booths, posters, and decorations for their section. This "agent-like" feat had surprisingly been more difficult than expected. Apparently, Rainy's addition had been met with stares and ostracizing—mostly about her having been announced on short notice and Sherry's forgetting to—that's something she will have to talk to Sherry about... But thanks to the other girl, there hadn't been much conflict—that came with perks of personally knowing the school president.

None of the administrators knew that they were here either.

If Rainy truly has a choice, she wouldn't be here—the main reason being that it is to pass the time. If given the true choice, she would have been back home, socks propped up the headboard of her bed, the smell of leftover blunts seeping in under her bedroom door, and probably the sounds of bed springs and other noises drifting from the opposite side of the house—that is, _if_ her mother iisn't either high herself or walking with her clothes unbuttoned.

There is also another reason, another fact that she knew: Sherry would not have stopped pleading if Rainy didn't agreed to go, and Rainy couldn't see any other probable solution that wouldn't result in her exposing her secret and oddity.

The two girls are separate from the decorating group now, and to tell the truth, neither even know _what_ they were going to do for decorations.

Rainy is just following orders

like she always does

They make it to the art classroom on the other side of the building. Rainy is the one who opens the door with a set of keys given, Sherry cowering behind. The closet door creaks when Sherry opens it, and the girl's hair stands on end. She has to take a shaking breath before diving into the clutter of never-ending art supplies in a large bin.

Rainy keeps watch at the door, as she's told, a task she couldn't understand the use for. But it put Sherry at ease, so she didn't argue. She stands near a window in the room, not far behind Sherry.

Outside, it's approaching mid-late day, perhaps around two in the afternoon if the clock on the wall is correct. Bright orange and gold flitters through the windows across the otherwise empty classroom.

"What do you think of this?"

Rainy turns from staring out the window to Sherry now holding up a bucket of dried reddish paint.

Rainy only blinks.

Sherry places it down near the door and returns with two large markers, one black, one a dark red-pink.

Oh—Sherry's favorite color is anything across the spectrum from red to pink

This can be seen by the immense amount of shaded lip gloss she wears

"C'mon, Rainy. Help me here!"

The brunette continues wearing an undisturbed calm exterior. "Do whatever you want."

Sherry pouts, but her attention is then taken towards the door. And she could _swear_ that she had heard something, like the sound of wind, a breeze—but _inside?_

Her eyes are wide as she looks to her friend. " _Please_ tell me you just heard that," she almost pleads.

Rainy is already looking toward the open classroom door. Windows line the side of the hallway and from their angle they could see the dulling sun.

There were no papers or miscellaneous in the hallway as evidence of another presence—the janitors had made sure of that. More so, the A/C had cut off not too long after they had arrived to this room, so it definitely isn't the air vents...

Rainy nods in answer. She turns back toward the strawberry blonde and the subject rolls over her shoulder just like so many others. "So what else you want to look for? We can probably get into the room next door from hear and get some of those cardboards I think they were using this week." She's obviously unfazed, pointing to the single door connecting both classrooms.

It takes Sherry a moment to recollect herself, however. And when she does, she pauses, stutters a response but agrees. After gathering the supplies that are needed, both girls left to regroup. Rainy has to quicken her pace as her friend scurries ahead, still spooked.

Sometimes Sherry marvels at her friend's bravery, how Rainy never seems to be _disturbed_ or even phased, or even angered. She always kept herself under control, and had a way of managing her emotions where it's impossible to rile her up. Sometimes Sherry wishes she could have that ability—Sherry doesn't know the curse she would have cast upon herself, because if she only knew...

On the way back, Sherry nearly jumps out of her skin hearing a locker slam echo.

 ** _. . ._**

"No! I _swear_ that there was something there!" she cries.

"You're just over exaggerating again, Sherry."

" _I know what I saw_ ," Sherry pouts, snapping at the boy in the sweater-vest.

Rainy looks up to watch the others. Her hand drags lazily across the page to smooth out wrinkles. She's placed a ways off from the group, the group which involved Sherry and three boys whom Rainy never really cared for, spread across the tile floor drawing across an expansive paper—Sherry is the one positioned between Rainy and the others; after all, she's the one who invited the tagalong.

Rainy thought to tell that they had only _heard_ the sound, but decides it best to stay out of the quarrel. There is always a kind of tension between these two that Rainy could never place her finger on. A kind of tension that always threatened to break open a window or slam a textbook over his head and _scream_. Sherry is always on the verge of screaming around him, but this isn't for him and Rainy's here because she made a promise to help with setup.

But to be honest, Rainy too is quite put off by the mysterious noises. It doesn't make sense, not when the rest of their group is almost halfway across the campus...

Rainy had become so lost in thought, it isn't until her world turns on its side does she realize that she had been pushed over in an attempt to get her attention. The quarrel pauses and Sherry continues staring down at the girl with her hands still outstretched from nudging too hard, and her eyes are wide and questioning. Those behind her held similar expressions. _Why hadn't she noticed this at first?_

Rainy gets back to lying on her stomach. "What?" Her voice is curt and tart.

"...Are you okay, Rainy?"

She doesn't answer. Her eyes only narrow slightly, "Well," Sherry sighs, changing the subject, "I was _trying_ to get your attention to tell Lima Bean here who doesn't think that 14 atoms of oxygen is in white phosphorus and refuses to believe that it is highly flammable and is hazardous in the air. C'mon, we _just_ learned about this and everything and he doesn't think that I'm right."

Rainy's gaze shifts between Sherry and the dirty-blonde she had been arguing with. A thought ran through her mind about the size of the boy's nose...

She thinks back to first hearing about it, a page in a textbook, memory quite clear. "White phosphorus _is_ highly flammable..." she mumbles.

Sherry beams.

Another boy who had been watching is one with short, natural dreadlocks under a beanie. Rainy knows him; she's heard of him simply as Skeeter and that he's a close friend of the school's student president, according to Sherry—but then again, Rainy is growing untrusting of many things Sherry says. Rainy is untrusting about many things.

Rainy's gaze flickers over from Sherry and Liam Pearce—the dirty blonde—to Skeeter; she doesn't care that Sherry is scowling at him like he just killed her cat. In fact, she doesn't even realize it.

It is because of Skeeter how they were even able to get a key to the building—his uncle is one of the janitors.

Skeeter momentarily forgets about the plans in his lap and chews on the pen between his teeth, continuing to watch. He's only here as an extra pair of hands and the keys anyways.

Rainy had easily lost interest in the poster once she realizes that this had turned into a glaring contest. That, or Liam sincerely displeased her—it could be any of the two. And not wanting to take any chances, she then looks back to Sherry, whispering that they had to go back and look for...tape and glitter, anything she could think as an excuse.

Sherry had been too caught up in her heated argument to take any actual notice, and soon it's Rainy's heels clicking alone down the tile at a noticeable hurried pace.

Only when she's far enough and around the corner, Rainy's hands slaps her face and an audible sigh tumbles from her lips. Her hands drug lazily down her face but still nothing, she couldn't feel it. She couldn't feel anything and she pauses. She knows that she's relatively disliked throughout the school but then again, most of it's directed towards her _father_ and therefore indirectly expressed to her. And then there were those stemming from rumors started from the boys she had turned down. _And_ _then_ , it's the fact that—hardly any either took notice of, or didn't care for—is her outward appearance, traits that were noticeably from her mother, such as her light brown skin, her nose, full lips.

Her shoes made a small noise when she stops to take in her surroundings and then realizes she had gone down the wrong direction and would have to walk passed the group again to get back to the art room. She continues on anyhow. With luck, she found an open classroom and decides to be here for the rest of the time than out there. It is quiet, and with less to pay attention to, she could think and try to rationalize their decisions and what spurred their argument. The window she pulls a stool up to gave a clear view of the neighboring highway and she watches as two people seem to get into a fight over a device or some sort. This continues for some time until Rainy notices the color change of sun rays in the room. It is approaching dusk and she thinks this as a good excuse to leave the campus for the day.

She hates this. Sometimes she really would have hated all this. This town, this school, the way she is now... _why_ did her father ever decide to run for major? Maybe if he and her mother had negotiate their issues, _maybe_ all this wouldn't have happened...

The words haunt her, about her father, about her own decisions, about those interested in her, _about_ _her_...

 _"Why do you refuse to participate? Are you that weak?"_

 _"You're never apart of anything  
_ _you think you're better than everyone?"_

 _"You don't really talk to anyone"_

 _"So you think we're not as creditable...?"_

 _"...C'mon baby doll, what's not to love..?"_

 _"So I'm not good enough?_

 _You act like you're better"_

 _"Have a little sympathy, huh?"_

 _"Just because your father's gonna run the town you think you're pretty special?"_

She replies with a harsh "no" and a hint of a scowl at the last one comment

Sherry had been one of the first who noticed the onslaught of slews that were bombarding the girl and had since all but taken Rainy under her wing. But even now, though she is grateful for the kindness shown, Rainy still finds herself drifting to be alone. Just as she is now.

But what else is she supposed to do?

Leaving the classroom, Rainy keeps an eye open for any movement or inappropriate sound.

This is how it usually happened, right? Following some noise in an empty building usually brought the feeling of fear or disposition, both of which she's met worse with and were somethings she wouldn't have to worry about. At least not now, not with literally unable to feel it. And it isn't until she rounds another corner does her ears pick up a low, quick grunt.

There is definitely someone here.

Rainy slinks inside the next room—the door surprisingly left cracked open—and fumbles in her left jacket pocket. All she has is a wallet and a bus token. She quickens to go behind the large desk at the front of the room and digs into the drawers to find a boxcutter as she heard a locker door slam outside. She leaves, following the sound. She quickens her pace until she is just under a jog. But when she arrives at where she thought had been the source of the sound, she found no one, and the hallway completely empty.

"Coward!" she grumbles, concluding this as some sort of prank. Rainy crosses her arms and turns on her heels, mumbling to herself all the way back to the classroom about poor excuses and weak minds. However, she comes to halt in the doorway seeing another resuming her search in the desk drawers. A bag is thrown across the desktop and a head of grey is shuffling nose-deep in the bottom drawer.

QUIET

" _YOU AGAIN!_ "

Peter practically jumps, releasing a slight yelp. He now stares at her, wide-eyed and guilty.

"Are you following me?"

He just stares. But she doesn't look angered, doesn't look fazed at all, actually. He hadn't been expecting anyone to find him. ...Well, that's what he gets for slowing down for once...

"What are you even doing here?" she continues. There's a pause and then she's stomping towards him.

"What are _you_ doing here? This is a closed premises if you hadn't noticed," he retorts.

She sees that he is still in the drawer she must have left open. "You _are_ following me," she realizes. "You really are a stalker."

"Okay." He holds up a hand and then a finger. "First of all I'm not a stalker—where did that even _come from?!_ " He holds up another finger and proceeds to stand from behind the large desk. She can see that he's cradling a surprisingly large amount of snacks in one arm. "And second, I might have to report you to the office, _sweetie_. You can get into quite a lot of trouble being here after-hours. Not a good rap for someone named _Juliet_."

He's smirking, knowing he probably struck a nerve with that acquired name.

Rainy watches that shit-eating smirk grow on his face but then pauses. She realizes that she couldn't blow this guy off like she had done the others—he would be one of the harder ones to shake off.

She slowly opens her mouth, speaking calmly. "How'd you even get in here?"

Peter stands and shoves the snack-packets of nuts and sweeteners in the small bag he brought and slings it over his shoulder. He empties an entire snack packet of peanuts into his mouth and his hair is a mess. And once again, Rainy finds herself questioning it.

"That's for me to know and you to not worry your sweet little head about." He waves, pats her head once as he passes.

Pietro "Peter" Maximoff.  
Gender, Male.  
Premature silvery-grey hair  
Dark brown eyes.  
Birthday, May 10  
Transian-born American immigrant  
Mutation, Speed.

Rainy blinks. And he slinks past her and keeps walking, not giving any more acknowledgment. Her eyes follow as he exits into the hallway. She sprints to the desk and grabs a long peice of yellow plastic from the top drawer before following him out into the empty hall.

"And now you can go back home to Daddy and act like this never happened, yeah?"

She follows him from the classroom. "Just because my father is involved in a campaign does no mean that I give any concern for it. I am not apart of his work nor do I care for it. So, to presume that I am, in fact, some girl who rides off of her parents' work for self-gratification, that's just as wrong as you thought you could get away with your shenanigans."

Peter watches her arms folding.

"I wouldn't care whether he lost _or_ won," she speaks.

"Well that isn't very nice now is it?" Sarcasm rolls off the comment as he comes to another door, bending to be eye-level with the doorknob.

He glances over his shoulder to see that she hasn't answered, and is instead staring down at him. He sighs exaggeratedly, rolling his eyes. "Now why don't you go run along back to your hypocritical social group. I've got big things to take care of here."

She sees that smile had yet to decrease and she can tell that arrogance radiated from him. She intakes a breath and his expression falters the slightest.

"What if I told them that you were here," she challenges. "There's a chance they'd come after you on the spot, since no one is supposed to be up here besides us." She fingers the sharp objects she managed to nab from the desk drawer. "Anyways, stealing isn't a big expedition."

"The key word in that blame is _were_ , as in, _had been_ here," he answers a heartbeat afterwards. He pats himself down before pulling out a bobby hairpin from his jeans pocket. "Besides, you wouldn't do it," he smirks in disbelief. He sees her lips open but interrupts; he leans closer, tilting on the balls of his beat up sneakers and whispers in a joking manner, "I know what you are. Don't think I wouldn't have found out."

That smirk is back on his face; he works on the doorknob with the bobby-pin. A few seconds later, he jiggles the door and it opens. Rainy's fingers curl around the boxcutter in her pocket. Never has she confronted this boy like this before without any others eyes to witness; they were alone, she didn't know his motives, and she didn't trust him.

Peter doesn't say another word as he steps into the classroom he just opened. Rainy remains in the doorway.

The one mistake he made is turning his back on her.

"Oh really...? Now who told you my secret?"

Peter takes a step back and readies to turn to her in question when a weight slams on the back of his sneaker. In the seconds it takes for him to slightly lose his balance and yelp, something hits the back of his knees and he stumbles, his back meeting the edge of the desk with his arms behind himself for balance, and with more than a frazzled surprise that he had been expecting from this.

SHARP

Peter's yelp cuts short as something jabs at his jugular. Rainy looms over him, knees bent and apart as if ready to fight. Her face is emotionless and Peter registers that she is holding him hostage.

Now in this situation, he could easily get away, just easily move her arm and run. But he isn't that thoughtless—he knew that if he did, that if he did use his powers in pointblank range of a girl whose family could gain _much_ control over the town, also given the mutants living here...

Well, he isn't that indiscreet

"Don't. Move." She leaves the air open for a response.

Peter feels the thin razor of the boxcutter press into the skin of his throat. He doesn't dare move.

"Oh, I said it wrong. My mistake." She tucks a lock of brown hair behind her ear. " _You can move if you want, but it'd be very dangerous_ is what I should have said." And she pauses. "Curiosity...it's so much like a cockroach, isn't it?—getting into places and secrets it best not to be. That's more than annoying."

" _Hey_...!"

There are obscenities ready to roll off his tongue but he figures that now isn't the best time to let them fly.

"What's wrong?"

 _Is she mocking him?_

The blade of the razor presses further into his skin, but not enough to puncture, not enough to wince. His gaze flickers to the side, in the direction he had left his back. "Just listen and this will be over quicker," she orders calmly. "And I'll leave you to return to your whatever delinquent pleasures." She speaks to wide dark eyes.

 _She is mocking him!_

CLICK CLICK

"Really, what was I thinking? It was only a matter of time until someone like you found out, wasn't it? Though I must say, I was quite careless. A geek obviously doesn't listen to a darn thing, do you?" She speaks mostly to herself. She now has the boxcutter sliding down his throat and he found the repeated thought of the stability of her psyche questioned. "You found out didn't you, that day in science class those years ago. You noticed didn't you?"

 _"My memory doesn't exceed this year. Before that, nothing"  
_ She lied a handful of weeks ago

Peter's eyes flickered to the burn barely covered by her jacket's rolled up sleeve.

"You've been onto me ever since?"

Well, to be truthful, it had remained at the edge of mind and only peaked this year whenever he saw her

"You were right—just to set your little mind at rest—I couldn't feel it. In fact, I can't feel at all."

Peter's brows arched.

"Well, not entirely," she adds. "What I'm about to tell you better not leave this room." The razor presses just the slightest into the base of his throat; he nods vigorously. And so Rainy continues. "It happened in middle school after my father made the decision to get into politics. I met a sort shaman at a carnival. He cursed me and stripped me of the ability to feel as well as my emotions and some of my memories. Despite, I have been working for a long time to keep this hidden."

Peter's eyes remain wide, but mainly from the razor threatening to carve out his voice box. He looks at this girl and found no remorse. He looks up to her and his mind is filled with questions.

"Oh, it's alright if you don't understand—I wouldn't expect you to anyway. I'm merely explaining this to you because I know that someone like you would just keep poking your nose everywhere and just cause more of a ruckus until you found out."

Peter's brows remain in the air.

"Maximoff, wasn't it? Such an unusual name. But then most last names are." She moistens her lips. She tastes his name on her tongue again.

QUIET

 _"I cannot feel_

 _I have no emotions either"_

PAUSE

"Now, what do I have to do in order to keep you quiet about it?" She muses, and there's almost a smirk that appears but it is gone before he could be sure. "What do I have to do in order to make sure that you would never reveal this even to the most desperate souls and not have mouth ripped open? Or should I just disable your mouth instead?"

Peter starts to blabber but stops at feeling the razor slide along his skin, keeping him to the desktop wood. He winces, grinding his teeth.

She continues. "After all, all I want is your silence and valuable word. Is that too much to ask?" It isn't a true question. "If you can promise me that, nod your head twice. Anything else, as well as remaining silent, will be taken as a 'no.'" And she would attack, he knew. Her chin tilts up and her eyes are cat-like.

Like there isn't enough hostility already with this situation...

He nods.

SHARP

SMILE

Rainy forces a smiled as if she hadn't been about to puncture and scar him. And again, he is thrown off.

"Ok. Thank you."

He almost sighs in relief as the satisfying clicks as she leans back and starts to slowly retract the boxcutter, lowering it his side. Peter glances from her hand and back at her eyes, brows furrowing. She seems to pause before her hand flicks back up.

SLICE

Peter hisses and holds his mouth. The edge of the blade nicks his bicep on accident as it tore a small rip in his shirt sleeve.

"Oops, my hand slipped." It's said with apathy. She tilts her head just in the slightest. "You didn't scream. Impressive."

Peter doesn't reply. His mind is moving rapidly in anger and shock and a possible revenge.

Rainy rests a hand on her hip. "I'll spare you this time, Maximoff, but I promise you..." She backs away, leaving the threat unfinished purposely. "See to it that you ignore me from now on, okay?"

Peter did all but growl at her.

"Please," he spits. His look went unnoticed by her.

The only sound after that are the footsteps of Rainy's sneakers fading down the tile.

The setting sun's rays filter unto the almost-empty halls of the school, turning the inside pale oranges and yellows.

Peter held a hand to his arm, feeling the thin slice in his skin and tear in his sleeve. His arm would heal in a day or two. His shirt however...

Rainy meets up with the others and Sherry questions on where she had been. The boys are preparing to leave; Sherry isn't.

 _"...shaman who stripped me of feeling and my emotions."_

 _"..."_

 _"Oh, there's no need for you to understand_  
I'm only telling you this because it'd only cause more problems if you were to snoop around any more,  
Maximoff.  
Maximoff...  
Hey, Maximoff..."

 _Capulet._

 _She kept repeating his name, over and over._

 _"I have no feeling of touch...  
I have no emotion..."_

 _Capulet._

 _She kept repeating his name, over and over._

 _"There's no feeling to me.  
Nothing whatsoever."_

"I'm empty," is what she wanted to say

 _"I'm cursed."_

 _"Right, Maximoff?"_

There's no need for him to understand or worry, right? This isn't his problem; it had nothing to do with him—she told him herself. Even though she's mysteriously cursed. And the mysterious popular girl who barely talked about herself, if at all, had come at him. That this girl that no one could annoy her even if they tried their hardest, and she had just come at him... Sure, Rainy doesn't talk to many besides a very select few in her friends group, and just because Peter found out that she is probably bad luck doesn't give any reason why he should meddle further...right?

He curses to himself.


	6. stop insisting (Episode 3)

Meisha blinks water from her eyes, feeling the warm spray fall from the shower-head onto her face and a barely audible moan comes from her lips. She watches the warm water stream down her slim figure, across her unmarked skin to her feet, and then disappear down the drain. And she can't help but think: her smooth, unscathed, _unmarked_ skin—her virgin skin.

Her arms rise to wrap around her waist and she rests her forehead against the cold tile and finds her breath coming out heavy. Her hair is limp and unbraided, falling to the bottom of her thighs. Her mind trails to memories of a few days ago with the two she calls friends. Meisha's fingers press into her tan skin and she shuts her eyes tightly. She doesn't register the sudden choke for air she makes then.

Her virgin skin

Her bangs are soaked as they frame her face, and she sigh before pushing them back with one hand.

A part of her doesn't want to be alone; a part of her wants to be one of those girls in the hallways when her hand draped around another's arm, fingers intertwined, to feel large, stronger arms wrap around her instead of er own.

Her teeth digs into her lip, feeling the ends of her hair begin to twitch on its own again in discomfort. Meisha tries to remain calm—but her mind just _couldn't_. Her mind is racing with memories, with fantasies and suggestions, with wishes she wants to make reality. And this isn't the first time her mind has wondered like this, about thoughts towards a certain friend that definitely exceeded past _friendship_. It's a reoccurrence for almost a full two years now and she didn't...she isn't...

Breathing is harder now in the heavy shower steam. She blinks several times, and wipes the condensation from her eyelashes with the wet back of her hands. And Meisha heaves another sigh. All this... _situation_ is way too heavy.

The faucet gives a small squeak as she turns the water off. She has a deep purple towel that she wraps around her hair after ringing it out in the shower. She purposely squeezes her hair tighter than necessary.

Steam creates a thin layer of moisture across every surface in the small bathroom. She wipes she the mirror for a clear view. Remnants of the heat prickles her skin as her bare feet touch the cold floor. Showers were one of the few times she could relax, one of the few places she felt that didn't _have_ to worry about becoming a psycho—because she she could sing or vent to herself or cry and there's no chance anyone could see. It's almost therapeutic.

Her second towel remains abandoned on the hook near the shower curtain. The mix of the steam and the cool air seeping from under the door cause goosebumps to explode across her body.

She isn't sure how long she had been in there; her parents were outside, elsewhere in their one-story house.

Meisha frowns at her reflection. All she sees is frizzing, ugly red hair against slightly too-tanned skin and light brown, almost golden, puffy eyes with equally puffy skin—all traits she acquired from her parents; now if only they could find out where she got her eyes from... There are bags under her eyes from staying up late one too many nights, and a faint trail of freckles that splayed across her face, in her mind, reminded her of a raccoon.

Needless to say, some parts of her way of thinking hasn't changed

Meisha pokes at her face and scowled this time. She pulls at a bottom eyelid, annoyed at what she sees. She didn't want to step outside with pink-rimmed eyes like this. Her parents would surely notice and she didn't want to sit and try to explain to them what she couldn't even tell her closest friends.

She had teared up again sometime during her shower up again. Her nose holds a pink tinge as well.

 _"Teared up" again_

Her hands fall to the counter in a huff. This had been enough, she told herself, but continues to scowl at what she sees in the mirror. This is enough of just standing around, being "one of the guys"—she gives herself a pep talk again—she's in high school now for God's sake!

Wrapping her hair in a second towel, she exits to go her bedroom to dress in the pair of overalls Peter remarked about once.

She's planning on going over to meet the boys today. And as she slides on a sock, she freezes, a thought passing through her mind that makes her nervous and a blush spread across her cheeks.

 _Thoughts that definitely exceeded friendship_

Meisha is sure that Wanda Maximoff would probably— _likely_ —give her hell if ever found out.

* * *

The school's library is usually, mostly empty except for a few study sessions and overachievers. It's regarded as one of the more boring locations on the school campus by some, and as a good place to drop students off by other teachers who need another fifteen minutes, an Advil, and a flask of scotch.

Such as today, for example. One classes is scheduled to visit the library for an assignment and it's study hall for others, a free class period. While one class' teacher is generous and allows students to roam free, the others a part of study hall have one that's cranky, chapped-lipped, and with a grating, _offensively condescending_ tone who monitors like a falcon on a shoulder. Students in study hall watch those of the guest class with sealed lips and remain silent lest they have a wet _shush_ from their teacher fly their way.

Rainy is a part of the study hall. Exiting the bookshelves and to the large wooden study-tables, hands at her side, she merely glances at a boy behind her who is readying to flick a paper football to another several tables in front of her. Their teacher is turned away and Rainy wants to feel bad, even for them; they all were stuck with the strict one who sneers at the slightest noise.

Rainy had left her schoolbag at the table she's sharing with Michelle and a few others, and had gone to left to waste time at the shelves, not finding any productivity partaking in their gossip. She uses her time to do so something productive, and to her, homework is the obvious choice since. There is nothing else to do. Since there is nothing else she _could_ do. Michelle and the others at the table are discussing something about suspicions about one student or another.

Students from the first class circle the shelves of the nonfiction section and Rainy makes a bee-line until she comes to an aisle with less others who are fighting over encyclopedias. The class is here for a sort of scavenger hunt; Rainy thinks it's a science class.

She stares at worn patterns etched into the bookshelves. She doesn't trail her hand across the polished wood anymore. She hadn't any reason to given she wouldn't feel it anyhow. There are marks and signatures carved into the shelves from over the years. Along one of the sideboards, someone has carved two names in a heart. Next to it, probably some years later, a knife had made an arrow through the heart surrounded it with obscenities.

It would be similar to if blood circulation throughout her body had stopped, or, similar to emerging from a stay in a tub of ice water. These were the examples Rainy could come up with if ever asked. This is how it felt to not feel at all—constant assumptions and theoretical guesses.

Back at the table, Michelle waves, hoping to catch the attention of the boy sitting in the chairs across from her, and she gestures to the entrance of the school library. The lot begins to snicker at something said about the girl with the long red braid who walks in then. Meisha's in the too-long sleeved shirt under denim overalls. The girl looks around the library for a moment before disappearing into the section of history books and map encyclopedias, long braid flowing behind her.

 _"Meisha Babinski never laughs,"_ they say.

 _"She only does to her own jokes she keeps to herself."_

 _"She'll snicker to jokes she makes up herself_

 _that she snickers and mutters to herself."_

 _"She talks to herself."_

 _"She doesn't talk at all."_

 _"Meisha never laughs_

 _Unless she's with one of those other geek-weirdoes she hangs around."_

When Meisha comes to the aisle, the gray-haired other who had been walking beside her had vanished. She would have sighed but Meisha had become well-adjusted to Peter's behavior. Of how he would be beside her one second but then disappear the next, returning eating out a box of snacks. She marveled at how he managed to avoid growing overweight with the amount he eats. Meisha also marvels at him for different things...

She scans the titles along her left as she walks, a finger raised absentmindedly to trace the wording etched in the book spines as she passes. An map about land elevation in Asia is what she is looking for. Meisha is a part if the guest class here who had decided to take a spontaneous trip to the library. Many of the required books for this assignment were already taken by students rushing to finish in order to gain those few extra credit points.

Meisha holds up the work directions again, flicking her wrist to make her loose, stripped sleeve fall from her knuckles to her elbow, and then double-back to check again for that book needed. She stands on tip toes, looks to the directions again. It isn't here. She suspects someone had gotten to this one again. Sighing as she turns to leave, Meisha stops in her tracks seeing a bushy-haired brunette popping gum and sliding her hands high up a shelf above at the far end of the book aisle.

Mckenzie Shabotz  
Gender, Female.  
Bushy, dark brown curly hair  
Dark brown eyes  
Birthday, August 25  
Caucasian American-born citizen

Meisha's hands unconsciously tighten on her sheet of paper. Instead of continuing, she turns to the opposite way to wait at the other end of the aisle and wait for the girl to leave, all the while, huffing under her breath.

It is obvious that Mckenzie doesn't want to be here—she always complains about this—and Meisha is _partially certain_ that the fall of books that happen then is caused by her. The brunette wears and uninterested, not-caring, and blatantly _bored_ -looking permanent pout. The redhead could tell _that_ much. As well as the way Mckenzie muses about the shelves, oblivious that it isn't allowed to copy _someone_ _else's_ answers. Also, that she'd rather be doing _other_ things... Mckenzie pops another purple bubble of gum before sighing loudly and turning to round the corner to join the others she hangs out with.

A small gust of wind hits Meisha's side and she doesn't have to turn around to know its cause. The ends of a breath faintly wisps the nape of her neck as Peter comes to a sudden halt behind her.

And then her pulse leapt in her chest

"Hey Meisha I—-" He stops to catch the last sight of the brunette turning the corner to return to her friends.

He calls after her, but it's either spoken too quickly or she hadn't heard. Both mutants watch the girl disappear around the corner. Peter hastily shoves the few books he had gathered on a nearby side table. Meisha watches him with narrowed eyes as he takes a steadying breath and pulls at his sweater to straighten it before striding to where the brunette had gone, and Meisha's shoulders slump. She knows he isn't going to approach her friends that way, at least, not directly.

The girl had continued on without a glance behind; Mckenzie takes no notice at all and he can hear her complaining the next aisle over.

Peter smirks. "'Kenzie," he calls out again. He can see her—at least, he hopes it is her—through the spaces between the books.

If the girl knew it to be him who called her by that self-given nickname, she would have _not_ been happy...

Meisha listens, rolls her eyes, and proceeds flipping through the books Peter indirectly brought her, searching for an answer for this treasure hunt assignment. She doesn't follow him and begins talking to herself about stubbornness and oblivious and cursed shyness.

"Hey, Mckenzie!"

Two dictionaries over, a book is pulled and Peter speeds over to be the one to greet her on the other side with a wide, cheeky grin.

Meisha can see him bouncing on his toes, figuring there's just no way to diverge him now from this plan and would have to let him ride out this heartache on his own. She grabs the rest of the books and leaves.

Peter fidgets his hands in his pockets, hearing the book on the other end taken and then reshelved, and then the book one over is taken—where Mckenzie had removed one, so there would now be only an empty space between the shelf to talk. But his smile quickly waters down when it isn't the girl he had been hoping looking out from the other side.

Both he and Rainy freeze, the look on their features radiating discomfort and _much_ awkwardness. Rainy is still holding the large book raised in her hand and Peter watches her slanted eyes and imagines them seeping venomously. She opens her mouth and he knows she is about to spit an accusation, but he has his hands up before she could utter a word.

"This isn't what it looks—-"

She doesn't care and interrupts anyway. "I thought I told you to stay away from me." Then she pauses, thinking. "You're following me," the realization is said so monotone and without the bat of an eye. She's still holding a straight face. "But then again, I shouldn't be surprised," she adds. "I should have known. I was foolish to think you wouldn't have shown resistance. But I didn't think it'd be this fast."

"Still rude," his lips pucker. "And next time I need someone to extremely bitter I'd come to you first. You aren't exactly on my top list either, sweetheart."

Her brows raises out of habit.

"You know...I know someone who could help with your _problem_." He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. "You might like it too. They have darkness, long flowey dresses that I'm sure is your style...if you ever had any, and lots of control over themselves. Heard they're awesome and have a whole bunch of potions and even a sale on cauldrons and brooms you might like. Of course, you might catch them better around Halloween. You all have the same attitude though; I'm sure you'll get along _swell_."

Rainy continues frowning at him. Or maybe, he thought, that is her normal look. He notes that to be a question for another day.

"That's beyond the point," Peter waves in dismissal. "Besides, you shouldn't go around saying you're surprised. Just doesn't fit your _image_ ," he mocks. "Because, you know, it'd be a shame if that little secret of yours were to leak out." His gaze flickers to the book she still has raised in one hand and a grey eyebrow of his raises.

Rainy didn't say any more and leaves, and Peter follows her to the next book she pulls. "That's a pretty odd book for someone like you to be reading, isn't it?" He points an arm through the space. Now, he swears that her eyes narrow dangerously.

The smirk on his face grows in arrogance.

The book she holds is a romance of sorts. He can tell that much by the cowboy and the damsel atop the horse and the cursive writing he's seen on some of his sister's books. Rainy quickly tucks it away with the others held in her arms.

"My, Maximoff, is that a threat? You just don't know how to keep your nose out of things, do you? Would I have to cut your tongue off after all?"

He barks a laugh. Insults were one of the things that he cared least for; threats certainly didn't faze him.

Peter pokes his head in the space between them. "I'd like to see you're smart little ass try," and backs out before she could lash out at him, which she doesn't even, but just in case. "You'd never be able to catch me. No one has yet or ever will. You wanna know how," he asked, and not waiting for a response: "'cause I'm the fastest thing alive. I can take your world and drop it on your head before you'd even know what happened."

...Is he threatening her?

"And you never know, I might just mention your little _"problem"_ to Clarice or someone. I don't know, it might just _slip_."

If there is a problem one had—if one is from a poor family, or weird kink or embarrassing habit, or a health issue—Clarice would know of almost everyone in school, and use it to build herself up.

That _is_ a threat

Rainy's gaze flickered to the direction of his shoulder. "Aw," she speaks in mock disappointment. "I was hoping you'd have a gnarly scar. It'd add character...and mystery, something interesting." A finger flickers to her lips before returning to hold her books. "I hope that assumed _"fast"_ characteristic of yours doesn't apply to everything." Her lips twist into what she hopes is a smirk. "Or else, that would be a shame it would hinder your relationship like that.."

It is his turn to glare. He growls, "why you little—-"

"Don't get mad at facts, Maximoff."

His words begin running together, and she can see just the smallest hint of color spreading up his neck. "You know that's not what I meant!"

"You said it, not me."

"You are such a _witch_ you know that?!"

She's unfazed, still with a calm look to her face.

"And those're mighty big words coming from somebody who hasn't even had a boyfriend." He pauses for a second, his face scrunching up a little, expecting a comeback. When there isn't one, he continues. "You don't, do you, _I_ _presume_?" It's spoken in sarcasm. "So how _would_ someone like you even _know_ something as that, hm?"

She would have scowled at this, but instead, keeps watching him bounce on his feet.

"And I wonder how'd he be about your _little issue._ "

Rainy's tone remains flat. "Speak of this to no one or you'd get more than just a scratch on your arm." He can easily tell it hadn't been a question. Regardless, a smirk curls the ends of his lips. "Lest I have a little chat with Mckenzie over here..."

"Was that supposed to scare me?"

"I don't know. Were you really going to risk trying to make me look bad?"

And then a glaring match resumes. Heavy tension only Peter could feel passes between the small space between the bookshelf. Finally, Rainy glances down, returned one of the large books in her arms to the empty space.

Still, he persists, talking through the shelf. "Why does it seem that whenever I try to say something, you're so crabby.?"

"Why is it that you persist to stalk me—-?"

"Will you stop with the stalking. Why the heck would I stalk _you_?!"

"Oh, so you _are_ admitting that you do..?"

"No—-!"

"How sad," she tisks as if he hadn't spoken at all, and left, only to find him still close.

Rainy is incredibly blunt

"Were you not taught the concept of personal space? It's a very valuable thing," she calls back.

She didn't stop and is already turning another corner, getting further and wanting to leave this conversation behind. But when she enters the next aisle, a figure could be seen through the book spaces and Rainy pushes them aside to find Peter staring back at her.

"I'm not sure it's that valuable. You're just being mean."

"What would it take to get rid of you..." she sighs, almost as if she is speaking to herself. "I'd should have done it day you where snooping about." She watches him smack him wet his lips. "Now I'm beginning to regret ever telling you that secret because you are surely to blurt it out to someone..."

His gaze studies her.

"Should I have not told that to you, Maximoff?" She finalizes, her face deadpan. "Just know that if you answer _"no,"_ then you are indicating that you are, in fact, unreliable and I do not hold mercy for or have any tolerance for unreliable people."

"Wouldn't it be considered two-faced to say that you, yourself, feel mercy, seeing as—-"

BLOCK

She shoves the book back in its place, blocking him. It just graces his nose, otherwise if he had been leaning any closer, he would have received more than a hard knocking.

Peter could could hear her shoes shuffling on the carpet as she leaves and he pauses to think, weighing his chances, considering his outcomes.

"Ice Queen!" he calls—practically yells—after her. "Hey, Juliet!" He catches up to her in the textbook section where students could rent to do homework in the library. He comes to a stop and watches her with hands in his pockets as he stands, looking over her shoulder as she squatting to level with the lowest shelf. "I want to ask you something." He lowers himself as well.

"Of course it was too good to think you would learn." When hearing that he had a question, she mutters, oozing sarcasm, " _delightful_."

Peter cranes his neck to peer at the open book she flips through. He ignores her snappiness. "I wanted to ask you..."

Rainy refuses to look up. Her attention is only taken seeing a foreign hand slowly closing the book in front of her, and she uses her finger to mark her place but still keeps her gaze fixed on her lap.

"...What _is_ your name, exactly," he spoke. His gaze is fixed on her but to his disappointment, she only looks calm. "I mean you already know mine is Maximoff—Peter, actually, by the way," his hands flew to his chest upon reintroducing himself. There is a slight smile he wears, but when she does finally look over to him, she has none whatsoever.

"What? So? What's my name have anything to you? It's none of your business."

His brows for a wrinkle between and she barks what is supposed to be a chuckle. "Funny. So what's this for, a prank? What bet did you lose?"

 _"Pfffft_. Why do you people always assume I'm here with some sort of _agenda_ or to _gain_ something?"

It had been the bet against Ronny, actually, to why he asks and persists on. But he wouldn't have agreed to chase her if he didn't find her _somewhat_ interesting.

He flashes her an arrogant smile. "Can't a guy just ask the name to a...a fellow classmate? Ya know, that's the first step for becoming _social_."

Rainy continues to frown, looking him in the eyes. This silence persists longer than he would have liked and he watches her lips part slowly as finally she draws in a slow breath...

"No," she finally states, firmly.

Peter's smirk fades, his eyes trained on her as she stood.

"No. Now for the last time, go away. Don't talk to me, don't look at me, don't think about about me. You are to ignore me. None of this," her finger waggles between them, "ever happened. We have _never_ met." She shuffles the books in her arms as she stands and glares down with a hard look that he isn't sure she is making on purpose. "But if you _ever_ reveal to _anyone_ what I had told you, I will make sure that you regret it."

And with that, she goes to check her books to the counter, grabs her bag, and leaves the building, Michelle not even getting an answer to why.

That had been the last time Peter Maximoff spoke to Rainy Capulet. He did see her in the halls, but even he knew that he couldn't keep that promise. He knew that he couldn't live up to her orders. Not when there is forty dollars in cash on the line.


	7. usual abnormal possibilities,late (Ep 3)

_**A/N: The first half of this chapter is more Wanda-centric**_

 _ **And I wish I had a names for Peter's little sister in the movie. she's just going to be called "the smallest Maximoff" for now. I don't want her to be Lorna because I want to work her in later in the story, and I don't believe they ever confirmed it was her in the movie.**_

 _ **Following the second half of this combined chapter, it continues as normal.**_

* * *

The smallest Maximoff journeys through the suburban house calling out for her mother. She awoken from her nap early—which she hadn't gone down with a fight, of course—and could no longer find the one who had put her down. Her stomach rumbles. She's still dressed in a blue tank tank top and cotton shorts.

She goes looking for the other occupants of the house, dragging her Strawberry Shortcake doll behind her. She's hungry and bored; and the only sounds she can hear are the TVs in the basement and faint music coming from her sister's room. The short girl pauses in the living room; she goes to stand in the middle of the kitchen. She knows the orders left by her mother include to never touch the stove, and thought it best to get one of her other siblings to do it for her. Or to ask her sister, actually. She then goes to find her sister.

Now, this young girl is the youngest child in the Maximoff household, coming behind her older sister and brother.

Wanda & Pietro

They are her older sister and brother. And the young girl is well aware that they are not related by blood, and that they could do many _cool things_ that she could not. But she does know that they live with them because their own mommy "is not here anymore." The young girl knows that her siblings are mutants and that she is not; her own mother, Marya, had made sure to explain this to her before starting school. She knows the differences, while simultaneously knowing that they are all the same, mutant and not. They are her sister and brother; they are her family. Her mother had explained that this fact is something that should not be shared in daycare and her now-elementary school.

The girl rubs her eyes as she shuffles through the living room and almost trips on the hand-me-down pink pajama pants that she has yet to fully grow into.

She calls out for her sister because Wanda is always her first go-to.

She calls her sister's name again when she reaches the hallway and gets no answer. Her socks pad down the carpet, down the hall to her sister's bedroom. She can hear the faint sound of music playing as she stands outside the room door. She tries the knob but finds it locked. The sound of things moving and falling in an unnaturally manner can be heard through the closed door.

Cranky and hungry, she stamps her little foot. "Wandaaa~!"

And she wants attention. She's hungry and thirsty and wants to be played with and probably has to pee but she's going to hold it and her sister _never comes out the room_.

The girl nearly jumps out of her skin when something particularly large and heavy hits the door from inside. It's followed by a shriek from Wanda and more thuds. But the little girl is already running back down the hallway in caution when Wanda moves aside the record player she hexed into the door and cracks open the wooden door. She doesn't see her younger sister and so closes it back.

The young girl takes a breather once reaching the end of the hall, and after a moment, scoops up her doll and hugs it in her arms. That is when she also notices the newspaper on the coffee table flutter from a nonexistent breeze.

That is also something she's learned. For being so young, she has gotten used to paying attention to small detail in this house, that if you wanted attention, you had to pick up on everything around.

She yells aloud to an empty room. She stands still for a moment and her brown eyes trail to the bookshelf in the corner on the opposite side of the room just in time to see several of the books suddenly disappear and rearrange. It happened so quickly that if she were to blink, she would have missed it.

"Heeeey~!" She screams again, and once more there isn't an answer.

She proceeds to pout until she hears the refrigerator open. Gasping, she runs to the kitchen at full speed. She arrives just in time to catch her elder brother pulling his nose from inside the fridge, a sandwich hanging from his mouth and glass of something in his hand.

She clutches the doll in her arms and frowns deeply.

When Peter stands, he just stares. She doesn't say anything either until he chews, swallows, and finally speaks.

"What's up, tyke?" His hair is a wild mess, per usual.

She pouts. "Will you play with me?"

He pauses. "You already went to Wanda?"

She nods.

"Well what'd she say?"

"I dunno," she shrugs. "She's doing something in there like throwing her stuff around again. The door's locked too."

Peter's shoulders slump as he sighs heavily. He gives once last look in the direction of the safe confines of his basement before turning to his younger sister. "Okay. Whadaya wanna play?"

He thinks, he'd have to get rid of those magazines before someone goes down there and sees...

"A party," she answers sheepishly, trying to hold in a smile.

He had already finished his sandwich, licking condiments from his fingers. "Ok, what kinda party?"

"A berry party with me and Strawberry Shortcake. It's our party and we're gonna dress-up with feathers and wear fancy stuff. We need cakes and muffins and cookies and sandwiches and teas to drink. Can you get some? Oh, and our guests are gonna have to find something fancy to wear too when they come."

Peter is already feeling like he should not have asked. The food would be way to much to cook and would take far too much time. But—

"And I'm hungry."

Peter gulps down his second glass he had poured in those few seconds and sits it on the counter. He looks down as his youngest sister tugs his hand along.

"I want a sandwich too!" She begins dragging him to her bedroom. "Can you bring it to my room because we gotta go get ready. And then when you do, you have to stay."

"Why—-?"

"'Cause you're one of the guests who have to come."

Later that day, Wanda would obtain _so much_ blackmail, forever immortalizing her brother sitting at a small princess table surrounded by dolls and stuffed animals, dressed in a pink feather boa, tiara, and sprinkled with glitter, pinkie finger out around a plastic teacup to add. His horrified look in the Polaroid photograph solidifies the moment in her opinion.

* * *

To many, having the ability to set things on fire with the snap of a finger, or possessing the force of a hurricane is dangerous. But what the public seems to not be able to grasp is that it is also very dangerous _to_ _those_ who possess this power, not only those around. Such power can make the most minuscule and standard tasks, such as going to the dentist or playing on a playground, a jeopardous and high-risk situation. To the public, and thanks to the media, the label **DANGEROUS** has been slapped on without mercy to all those born that did not fall in the created category of "normal."

The public is starting to only see these people as a _threat_ , ignoring that those who are also a danger to themselves _are also_ afraid. This is something Wanda does not understand.

SCENE CHANGE

It first started in gym class. That is when she first noticed the pain. It started slight at first and in her lower stomach; she should have known, really, but unfortunately hadn't give it much thought.

It's half an hour into having to hear the coach hollering at them and Wanda Maximoff could already feel the tendons in the back of her knees ready to rip in half. The class is Physical Education and the students are positioned on the floor on their bums, some stretching, some gritting teeth, all straining to touch their toes without bending his or her knees as instructed. Apparently, this is a _warm-up_ exercise, a task Coach made to appear _a lot_ easier than it actually is.

Just like the rest of them, Wanda strains not to focus on the shouted orders behind her and bouncing off the walls of the gymnasium. And although the Coach's shouts are directed at others, she still jumps at the volume of the Coach's voice.

It's a known fact that Coach A—for lack of name mispronunciation, the nickname was self-appointed—is a stickler for _rules_ and " _hard work,"_ a.k.a _. torture_ by students. It's just that most times the teacher didn't seem realize _how_ difficult the dejection masked as so-called encouragement made it all.

"That what you call a stretch, Jepson? My _grandmother_ can do better than that! And she's over _forty_!"

Wanda squeezes her eyes shut hearing the Coach approaching. The coach had refused to move on to the next exercise until every single student is touching their toes, no matter the height or legs-to-arm ratio difference.

Wanda glances at the brunette to her right. The girl is sweating and straining just as much as Wanda, her face almost an equal blush of tension and strain.

Sucking in a breath, Wanda concentrates, hoping that _maybe_ even, she could use her powers to cheat. She splays her hands ahead, still trying to reach the ends of her sneakers, and squints her eyes just the slightest. She's so concentrated that she vaguely registers the growing stress in her lower abdomen. She watches as her fingertips began glowing a faint reddish-purple, only stealing a glance to her sides to make sure no one is watching. She feels the familiar rush of her powers and bites her lip to keep from smiling. If she had only taken notice, she would have caught the Coach coming up behind her. But she hadn't, and jumps nearly ten whole inches in the air hearing the booming voice almost directly in her ear.

"Stop looking like you're constipated, Maximoff! And no one is leaving this _godforsaken gym_ until _everyone_ is done! Stop looking constipated, Maximoff! You better do better than that or you're going to give me twenty laps around the gym!"

All students are already out of breath and sweating, and they had only completed five exercises, so running is one of the last things Wanda wishes to do.

But in that moment the coach yells, the young brunette snaps forward in reflex. Though she does finally touch the ends of her sneakers, she feels something in her upper calves _snap_. She bits her lip to keep the pain in, but not before a very high, very shrill, and very tortured screech splits the gymnasium.

And it's painful. Very painful.

 ** _. . ._**

Wanda groans, messaging her lower back and traveling the hall with a slight limp in her knees. She curses under her breath, muttering insults and complaints of the past hour's "torture."

Or maybe it's just her...or maybe a few others who had went to the nurse's afterwards for bags of ice for strained muscles and tendons. Either way, Wanda is going to complain. Because she _hates_ gym, and would skip it if she could but she isn't that confident or much of a daredevil—not like her brother. It's her least favorite class, and not only because of that beast of a coach; she wonders why it's even called _a_ _class_.

She huffs, absentmindedly blowing a lock of hair from her face. Currently, she burrowing her hands between her knees in the girls' restroom. Her eyes narrow at an unfocused point ahead and she growls in frustration. That pain inside had returned, worse than before. It's somewhere in her lower stomach. She thinks she knows what it means, she hopes it's just a warning and early notice.

She doesn't notice how rapidly the strength of her power is growing.

Just moments before, she had been slightly limping between the flocks of students lallygagging in the halls between class. And in a flurry of a chase, she's knocked against the wall, realizing too late that it's newly painted as she peels her arm from the wall. She had then breezed through and escaped into the bathroom, fingering the new white paint along her skirt and favorite red jacket. She hadn't made eye contact with the girls inside who had held in smirks watching Wanda frantically rinse her hands free of the paint. As soon as they left, she looks into the mirror. Her face is already twisted into a scowl. And the more she glared, hating herself, hating this school and her luck, the more she could feel her power flowing, and for a moment, thought the mirror held a sort of deep purple hue.

She jumps as the mirror splits in half, jumping back just in time as the bottom half falls and shatters in the sink. Wanda frantically turns the water off and steps back, making sure to keep her hands at her from touching anything.

 _A broken mirror is seven years of bad luck_

And Wanda is well educated in the aspects of _luck_

She speeds into a bathroom stall just as another pair of girls walk inside. She couldn't let them see her out there, knowing they might connect the dots.

BROKEN

Instead, she listens to the girls speculate about the shards of glass. According to her watch, Wanda didn't have as much time to get to her next class now. She pushes that pain that rises in her lower stomach back and makes a mental note to visit the nurse for pain killers.

Right now, she doesn't feel like dealing with anyone today; she didn't even want to be at school today. Wanda had been feeling _moody_ since the day had began.

And she cringes, the pain suddenly becoming worse and feels nauseous for a moment. She couldn't think _what_ could be causing this and didn't quite have the patience either—she hasn't eaten today yet or taken any medication. She hadn't pushed her powers a training limit either, she thinks as the girls by the sinks leave the restroom. In fact, she hardly used them and preferred not to. Her monthly red curse isn't due for another couple of days, so...

But as the pain shoots through her again, she finds that going to the nurse is no longer an option but a necessity. Her hands press into her pelvic and a pained moan echoes the girls' restroom.

 _Why is this happening?_

It isn't until Wanda finally yanks down her underwear does she see the cause of her pain. And she stares down at the fresh red soaking the wad of tissue she used in absolute dread. She almost lets out a string of curses.

RED

 _'No,'_ she screams in her head. _'No! This can't be happening. Not now!'_ She hadn't even brought protection.

 _RED_

One thing about Wanda is that she prefers to alway be prepared. She would be the one who packs more than needed as a "just in case." But this is an entirely different matter, of course, one every woman would want to be prepared for.

 _NO!_

She pumps the air once with a fist as panic seeps into her bones. And somewhere nearby in the bathroom stall, a girl shrieks, running out, followed by a loud crack and a sound of something like a hose spraying.

Using a _generous_ amount of toilet tissue, Wanda makes as a temporary substitute for a stationary before dashing out. Now, she only has a few minutes to make it to her locker and then run to class.

She steps over a stream of water coming from the other two stalls. She doesn't see that the other toilets had combusted from her powers.

Her locker—this is one of the things Wanda is grateful for in this contagion of a school, where the biggest obsession is to climb the social latter. The status climbing is something her brother had become sucked into. Wanda, on the other hand, could care less.

But it's Troy Baxter who makes all this wonderful. As one of the school's star basketball players, and all his blue eyes and sandy-haired glory, by some stroke of natural luck Wanda had gotten a locker practically _right next_ to his. They had even spoken of a few occasions—though it had been small talk, a borrowing of a pencil or praise about a previous ball game—and it gave her a small serge of courage every time to speak up more. In fact, a blush is starting to creep up her cheeks that very moment while in the hallway. Wanda pulls her one-size-too-large red jacket tighter round her frame. The a cramp returned then, this time a bit lower in her abdomen, but she pushes it aside as the blonde boy came into view, but standing with a few others against the wall.

As Wanda spins the combination lock, her fingers unconsciously reach to pull at her white skirt she had dared to wear today. Her heart races in her chest and she dares to peek over in his direction, and a smile spread across her face in what she felt would belong to a lunatic. She's so distracted that she doesn't notice at first that her locker isn't open. She tugs against it, expecting it to open when it doesn't.

She pauses. Wanda tugs—nothing. She tugs harder, two hands. Still nothing.

She groans slightly, inwardly screaming, her head tilting backward. _Could this happen at an even more embarrassing moment?_ And then another cramp hits, this one feeling more like poking needles, and she winces. She redials the combination gain. Wanda is trying to calculate the likelihood if her locker opened, how long she would have to run to the nurse before the final bell rang—it isn't likely—but her train of thought falls off track catching a head of sandy blonde out the corner of an eye.

In a suddenly panicked frenzy, she spins her lock wildly, hoping, _praying_ that it would open this time because this is _embarrassing_ and she'd much rather _die_. Dread sets in seeing the door still refusing to budge...and Troy and his friends are approaching his own locker not too far down. Wanda wants to cry, to run away, and she felt so darn _ridiculous_ coming to stand at her locker only to walk away like this.

She sends a death glare toward her locker. Her fist round the combination dial begins to buzz lightly, and she gives it a quick shake seeing it begin to glow. She has to take a steadying nasal inhale in an attempt to calm her nerves; she only jolts slightly at the deep voice. And at the water fountain behind, the stream of water curbs and soaks the pants of those standing near it.

"Locker jammed?" Troy had leaned over after pausing his trio of friends. He smiles in Wanda's direction from his own locker and when she turns, her words failing, he saw wide eyes under her hood and his smile became genuine.

Wanda gapes, not believing he's talking to _her_ , and stutters a "y-yeah." She could swear that for a split second she could feel her brother's murderous glare burning holes into the both of them. Rolling her shoulders, it's instantly gone.

"Here," he steps beside her, offering to help.

Wanda still doesn't know exactly what to say and obliges silently. But when she uncurls her fingers the lock had already been undone. She stares in bewilderment—and annoyance too because _now_ it opens?

"Well," Troy shrugs. "Looks like you got it already." His words trail off at the end and it sounds almost despondent.

Wanda, on the other hand, is upset. No, she's beyond upset and _annoyed_ —no, _more_ than that. She wants to throw the lock on the floor and stamp her feet in a tantrum and shout and curl into a ball.

She had been close, _so close_.

 _She'd done it again_

In her fit, she jerks open her locker and crams all her needed school things in her bags in a failed attempt at calm. She did all but literally _stomp_ away grumbling words to express her anger at this missed opportunity, towards her locker, the gods, to herself.

 _These damn mutations_

When she gives a small stomp, a wall of locker down the opposite hall swing open, the booming of metal echoing down the hallways.

She hadn't gotten very far when she heard Troy's voice and slows her steps. She didn't dare turn around, and clutches her books to her chest tighter.

She could hear his tone, confused, and calls, "hey! Where's all my stuff?!" He's clearly angry and _very_ confused as he turns to one of the other boys at this side. "Is this some kind of _prank_? It's freaking _empty_!"

Wanda's blood ices over.

" _Who the hell did this!?_ "

She quickens her pace, a panicked look in her eyes. She'd done it again.

 ** _. . ._**

The final late bell rings two minutes later as Wanda slides into her signed seat. Students chatting at the front of the room look impressed. While Wanda lets out a relieved groan, glad she hadn't causing any more craziness, she could have gone without the preserved animals in containers lining the classroom. A shiver runs across her skin.

It's second year science and as soon as the teacher walks in, Wanda pulls out her notebook and pencil because notes for the upcoming quiz is already being announced. She's relieved to have something else to preoccupy her time, having a focus on something less stressing rather than the anxiety about the lockers or Troy.

Her hood slides from her head as time goes by and her paper fills with written notes she isn't sure she would understand by tomorrow.

The teacher also asks questions pertaining to the lesson. A pale blonde named Edwin answers many of the answers that would be in their homework. Wanda shifts uncomfortable in her seat to an unsettling wetness. She jolts as the sharp pain of another cramp hits. A surge of fear follows. She has to force herself to calm just as a paper plane the boy across the room throws, and it turn, and rams into his eye. The teacher doesn't excuse him to the nurse.

Wanda's head slides into her hands, her fingers finding her hair. The boy whines about his hurt eye. The teacher says it is his own fault.

Now, Wanda doesn't like attention, and tries to void it unless it's absolutely necessary. This is partially to hide her mutation, and this is partially because of the anxiety that eats at her insides and makes her afraid to even enter the cafeteria. Because of this, she never raises her hands in class either, and friends are nonexistent. There were a few she has conversed with, even with her arrogant, annoying _jerk_ of a brother has more secure friends than she thinks she ever will. Because of this, Wanda procrastinates getting the teacher's attention to ask to leave. But it is also partially due to the fact that she's afraid, and creates exaggerated scenarios of being declined the request and having to sit throughout the class period as she bleeds out in a white skirt. However, when the clicking of shoes pauses near her desk and an, "are you feeling alright, Wanda?" told her the woman already knew.

Wanda slides upright and forces a smile on her face. "Yes, I'm fine." But she pauses. "But can I go to—-"

"Then I guess you wouldn't mind going up to answer the next question...?" The woman motions in the direction of the chalkboard.

"The question...?" Wanda mumbles, an icy feeling forming in the pit of her gut and setting in her veins.

She had been so immersed in her thoughts that she doesn't realize that the class had begun to be called to the board to identify parts on the drawn diagrams. She swallows, her throat tightening. And as she stands, she could feel another cramp but does her best not to cringe. She could practically _feel_ all eyes on her as she reaches for the chalk with a shaky hand.

This isn't a good day to be wearing a white skirt, she regrets, even if her red jacket is oversized enough to cover her bum.

The question she is to solve is easy enough and she knows the parts to label, something she's sure to have seen before once in a textbook or heard during discussion... It's a question surely to be on the test too...

She has no clue what the answer is.

Sweat forms on the back of her neck. Wanda's free hand fists her skirt at her side. Her wide eyes run across the question written above in dusty white again and again, and for a moment her vision swims. She only calms catching her fingers beginning to glow again, and holds them to her chest. She knows all eyes were on her, and gaining a sudden serge of confidence, she let her hands write across the chalkboard seemingly on their own. Her heart drums a fast beat in her chest, the grip on her skirt loosens.

She doesn't notice the whisper and gasp from a girl in the front row behind her.

Wanda heaves a sigh when she finishes, and dusts off her palms. The teacher's heels click to stand beside her and Wanda made sure she would be able to see her fingers that are still slightly glowing.

"Oh...wow!"

Wanda tries to hold in her smile threatening to grow.

"That's right!" The woman appears shocked, looking between Wanda's answer and the notes in her manicured hand. This had been the most difficult one and hadn't expected it all to be correct.

Wanda allows more of her smile to show. However, it soon fades feeling warm moisture between her thighs, and panic set in again remembering she had to get to the school nurse. Shuffled, Wanda fidgets, hoping the woman would allow her to her seat already, but unfortunately she's more interested in Wanda's answer.

Wanda shuffles uncomfortably.

But that is when she hears it, when she looks behind at that girl in the front cover her own mouth and gasp. And as the girl points, the rest of the class follows. Wanda could feel it as well, feel _why_ they were looking.

Wanda stands at the front of class, frozen in utter shock.

She vaguely registers the warm, red wetness sliding down her thighs over the sheer terror freezing her to a standstill.

Her chest begins heaving rapidly as her emotions escalade to dangerous levels, but that too is something she barely registers. The more prominent issue is the squawking coming from out the windows at the back of the class. The teacher had forgotten the windows had been open to air out chemicals and the entire room _screams_ as a large bird crashes inside, the preserving jars shattering to the tile in the back of the room.

ODD

COINCIDENTAL

OUTRAGEOUS

Just the concealed usual here

 _"What are the possibilities a stork could have flown in a building THIS low?!"_

Welcome to Sherbrooke High.

* * *

Of course Mckenzie Shabotz is a well known and well-liked figure throughout the school, bred from a high earning and reputable background with premium pearl earrings and cashmere and a trust fund more than ones entire wardrobe. And by well- _liked,_ meaning by most of the student male population, then that is most definitely true. But to the girls, however; the girls couldn't give a damn about her—most of them, that is. Because Mckenzie Shabotz is outspoken, she's quite spoiled, condescending, _popular_ , and _desired_ by enough to inflate her head. She is one of the top in the small section of the peak of the school's social status—and many of the girls could care less about her.

Sherry Addams is not one of them.

And as she leans against the power-washed white brick wall, arms folded and watching the aforementioned popular brunette slide her palm so _suggestively_ across the chest of one of the three boys around her, Sherry can't remember exactly when Mckenzie began being this way. She has been a flirt for as far back as Sherry can remember. Near the wall in the hallway, the brunette squeezes the shoulder of the boy. She laughs. And Mckenzie's gum snapping only seems to heighten Sherry's ever-heightening annoyance.

Mckenzie flips a bushel of her dark hair over a shoulder and Sherry rolls her eyes at hearing the girl's obvious—obnoxious—flirtatious laughter. She's chewing gum and Sherry wants to gag. She is sure that whatever had been, it was not that funny.

Sherry isn't jealous—don't get that wrong—and Mckenzie hasn't done anything directly toward her to cause these hostile feelings. Not at all. Except blatantly flaunt her assets around guys for show and then pity those of other girls, specifically those who are single. Mckenzie would purposely call out passive aggressively. "Oh, that's a cute scarf, I'm surprised someone like _you_ could pull it off." Or, "I knew a girl who had freckles like yours. They were kinda pretty, I guess. She's dead now though. Oh, no, literally." And she would comment all the while dolling herself up in a compact mirror. Her high was making others envious. Or she would surround herself by her crew who would act as hype and support, leaving no room for an honest comeback. Not to mention she has hooked up with a guy she _knew_ Sherry had really liked.

 _Mckenzie would pucker her lips, testing the gloss_  
 _and glance with a smirk at the other's reaction to her offensive comment_

Another reason Sherry absolutely _didn't_ _mind_ having the girl around was the way because Mckenzie is so suggestive, regardless having a boyfriend at the time, or how her lipstick practically shouts "come f*ck with me." Oh, and don't be next to her in the locker room showers either, or she'll gladly make you the next "shower topic"

And not to mention Mckenzie's lengthy history of boys she's had wrapped around her finger, or the three-foot long list of those she's dated. Although the brunette is crafty enough to hide her two faces from the eyes of authorities, it's something that ticks at the strawberry blonde's nerves, of how Sherry _always_ gets caught and blamed for a misdemeanor. Sherry wasn't even sure the other's parents are _aware_ of Mckenzie's behavior at school.

None of this is exactly hidden

Word gets around this school quite quickly

As if knowing Sherry is watching, Mckenzie reached for the collar of the boy in front of her and lowers him down to bring his ear to her lips, speaking something low, and Sherry could swear that Mckenzie's eye flickers her way.

Sherry's fist tightens and she scowls.

Oh, and there's another thing: one of the reasons Mckenzie has acquired a secured place at the top of the social pyramid is from being friends with the number one "queen" for years. And with this queen, her powers were even greater than Mckenzie's.

Sherry's friend then happens to come out of the girls bathroom, and seeming to pick up on the other's feelings, the friend walks over and asks. Sherry just rolls her eyes and lies that she's fine.

Yes, Mckenzie Shabotz is the eye and prime of almost every young boy in this school, and she knew it. The girl definitely uses that to her advantage too, and if she were to be asked about it, she'd only scoff. She is confident, proud, and shameless. Though this did cause most to shy away from her and admire from afar, there were those few who dared to approach. Mckenzie knew she her reputation, her attractive characteristics, and that she is the cause of many a boy's restless nights, and she wore it out whenever she's given the chance.

She also knows those she has to stay away from in order to keep her high status.

And Peter is no exception.

In fact, just this morning he fell victim of _another_ night of Mckenzie's form invading his dreams, something he'd rather keep secret (but hadn't done so successfully with Ronny, who had walked in one day when he was out of school "sick"). And as he stretched and swung his legs over his bed earlier that morning, Peter runs a hand through his bright hair, the mix of a scowl and a blush from the lingering dream on his cheeks when he glared down at his greeting boxers. He made sure to lock his basement door before anything else, and stumbled back over to his bed. The slight squeaking of springs under his weight seemed to echo the room for the few following minutes.

He knows that Wanda would be on time to school once again instead of him this morning, and frankly, he didn't quite care.

Peter reached over his side drawer, pausing only to listen for footsteps upstairs. He willed the dream to return to his mind and drew in a slow breath, readying himself. He knew that he was going to be making it close to the bell at school by this point... _if_ he even decided to go to school today...

Peter shivers, a low moan drifting from his lips at the task at hand and of the girl of his fantasies playing out in his imaginaion. His hand is a blur and his back gives a little arch above the mattress of his bed.

That had been early that morning, and now in the hallway, infactuation is still evident by the way his cheek presses to the cool metal and his other arm hung over the door of his locker, mouth slightly hanging as he watches the girl of his dreams without her even knowing. He also knows the look Meisha would have given if she were here. He watches the girl of his fantasies with very cloudy perception.

Peter Maximoff is completely infatuated with Mckenzie Shabotz

Beside him, Ronny is a frazzled mess of anxiety. "...I'm tellin' you, h-h-he'd blow a gasket. He'll turn red as a tomato again and that would be the end of me. I think the divorce is really going to happen, man. I'm—-" Ronny stops talking when noticing the other was no longer paying attention, and slams his own locker to get his attention.

Peter jumpes, shuffles, buries a fist in a pocket.

"You weren't even listening," Ronny frowns voice dragging out in his usual, slightly-defeated drawl. "I'm explaining my mid-life crisis here and you're over there drooling over _Mckenzie_ _again_!"

"Uh, no! I was listening!" Peter closes his locker—he doesn't even use it anyways; why was it open?—and figets with the embrodery on his jacket. "Besides, aren't you a little too young to be having a _mid-life crisis_?" he asks smartly. "I thought that is just what old guys have when they realize they have no future." He looks Ronny up and down for emphasis. "You don't have a cheating wife," the speedster began counting off on his fingers. He knew that this was going to tick off the other and continues regardless. "Two, you're too good to do drugs, and you don't have to worry about an inheritance." There was a hint of bitterness in his voice but it was gone when he held up a fourth finger. "And you definitely don't look like you're working in a miserable office job."

"You've been watching too many of those shows." One of Ronny's brows rise, knowing the other's growing habit of tuning in to soap operas as a form to waste time. "And since you were listening to what I was _saying_ , what was I talking about then?"

Peter's jaw hangs slightly again. _'Damn.'_ He stalls, rolling his eyes. Just as he took one final glance at Mckenzie flirting in the diatance, the bell rings. Peter turns back with a smirk at a frowning Ronny—but then again, he was almost always frowning.

"Well, catch you later, Ron!" The shorter salutes, spinning on his heels before the other could say otherwise.

The mutant stares after the other with his usual puppy-dog glare, watching Peter leave before throwing his hands in the air. While Ronny would slide into his assigned seat next to a familiar redhead, Peter would stride over to where Mckenzie was waving in a goodbye and clears his throat to get her attention.

"Hey 'Kenzie, what's up?" A large, goofy smile splits across his face.

The girl glances in his direction and rolls her eyes and starts walking away until Peter steps into her path.

Mckenzie's look is cutting and she frowns. This isn't the first time the speedster has come up to her and she had hoped that he had taken the hint last time. "And _what_ do _you_ want?"

"Well first to say hello. Hi. And second, to know if i could have your autograph right here." He points to his heart. "Because you're printed across my heart, babe."

She sneers, an aggressivs smile. "Cute."

He begins pulling down the neck of his shirt to emphasis, and to purposely show off his toned neck. "And I can have here," he then lifts the bottom of his shirt, exposing a bit of skin above his belt, " _'property of your name_ ' if you're down for that, doll?" And he bits his lip.

Mckenzie stares at him for a moment, bewildered and disgusted, before pushing past. " _Move_ , out my way. I have to get to class."

"Yeah and that's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about!" He slides into her path again.

And once more, the girl pauses. She raised a brow, unamused. She's obviously fumming. "You're that kid in history class, aren't you...? The one who—-"

"Yes yes, that was me." His arms raise and slap down to his sides. "Yes I am. Now, listen, sweets?"

"Like _you_ actually have anything good to say to _me, geek_?"

Peter's brows arch. "Yeah actually." He smirks smugly. "You know, since it's coming up to Spirit Week..." He leans in the direction of her ear but keeps a distance. "How's say you, me..." His voice lowers into a whisper suggestively.

Mckenzie's eyes widen before barking out a flat laugh. "And _why' would I_?" She is steadily walking with Peter trying to intercept her path and she sidesteps him each time.

"Because you're hot, I'm hot. Why not?"

She snorts. "Haha! No." She veers around him again and he has to spin on his heels, still wearing the same cheeky grin.

"'Kay. So what's a guy gotta do to get your hot little ass to pay attention then?" The look in his eyes underlines that statement to be far less innocent than it sounds.

At that, the girl stops abruptly. She then glares up at him in what she hopes portrayed her disgust to his smug stare.

She's come across this weird one before, and yet, this time around he seems more determined and she's puzzled, not used to someone being this persistent and _annoying_.

Then without giving an answer, Mckenzie shoulders him aside.

By this point, the girl has already been battling the other to get to the classroom door, with him constantly stepping in front of her face, until she finally has to physically push him aside because he had been standing in front of her _again_. And right as she moves past and opened the door, the final bell rings, signalling to all who were not in class are now tardy. Mckenzie rushes inside, dreading next class already.

Now, Mr. Knight is one of the stricter instructors, one who would stand at the classroom door to make sure he _personally_ sees each student that walks through. And as soon as he leaves his post, he makes remarks about the late ones and mocks their excuses in front of the entire class.

This is what Mckenzie is already dreading as she opens the door. And this is _exactly_ what happens when she gets inside and sees Mr. Knight at his desk, glancing up from just finishing attendance, and thin mustache twitching. "Well, well, Miss Shabotz. Tardy." The balding man then does a double-take, catching the head of grey slinking inside behind her. "Maximoff! Late once again," his voice turns stony, making Peter freeze. "And I see you dragged Miss Shabotz with you..." The older man moved his gaze appointedly, and tisks.

Mckenzie is frozen in fear, yellow-painted fingers grasping at the strap of her bag. All the air and charisma she usually wore had flown out the window as she addresses the teacher. "M-Mr. Knight...I'm—-"

Peter's eyes dart to her and he then slides closer to her side, and tries to hold back the smirk on his lips. "Hey Mr. K," he casually holds up a hand in innocence. "Sorry we're late, I was just, uh, helping Miss Mckenzie here because she was complaining that her ankle was hurting, you know. And me being the gentleman I and all, I was offering to carry this poor thing to class when she oh-so-ungratefully punched me." Throughout his little speech, he shamelessly makes sad and hurtful expressions to accompany his words.

The rest of the classroom is quiet. The teacher was, still even, ceremoniously fiddling with his pen.

The look Mckenzie wants to give the speedster would have clearly spoke her spite and disapproval. _'You must have_ a lot _of balls,'_ she thinks.

Mr. Knight, as well as a umber of faculty, know for a fact that this boy tends to exaggerate. But given the look on Mckenzie Shabotz's face, he couldn't determine whether this what he is speaking is another lie, or if it is not.

"And a shame too," Peter continues, and Mckenzie shoots him a distasteful look. "Because the bell rang and I was _just_ about to ask if she would be my partner for Spirit week. We—-"

"Save it, Maximoff! You know the policy for tardies: detention. Both of you." Creases become visible on his face.

Mckenzie falters. She couldn't have detention! Not today! She was to see her current boyfriend, Jackson for the first time after a year after he returns from his first year in college, and then afterwards they were supposed to go back to his place...

Peter's eyes unfocused and he sighs loudly. He lowers, bending over his knees, and winces.

Many of the students had turned back to their textbooks or murmuring among themselves, mind their own business. No one wants to make eye contact with any of the three speaking.

"You know what, I actually don't feel quite well..." Peter's fist rose to his mouth and he appears to dry heave. "I don't think I'll make it to detention. I think I may have a stomachache-flu. It's probably food poisoning. That lunch did look questionable."

Knight looks the student up and down for a moment. "Ok then. You can serve it _tomorrow_ , or the day after."

Peter's chuckle is too low for anyone to hear. He forces his voice to remain unsteady. "You know, never mind. I'm actually starting to feel better... Must've just been something quick." He gives a slight burp, straightening his back slowly. "I think it might have to go to the nurse later though."

Mckenzie's eyes remain on the other teen, but her look had changed. She watches at the other as he stands slowly, her wearing one that is no longer with an disinterested, but is _slightly_ impressed. It was a second quick and fleeting flash in her eyes.

And the mutant sees it too.

Knight sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as he orders the two to take their assigned seats. And Peter doesn't miss the way Mckenzie flips her hair or the looks when she turns to someone she knew and her eyes give an appointed glance behind at him. Or, maybe that was just his imagination again. Either way, Peter feels a serge of new confidence that day, and he breaths a relying breath. Even when he walks past his friends in the hall, he would be so caught up in his proud self that as he leans on the wall beside Meisha, he doesn't see the end of her braid dart out for his throat in surprise, as if a knife, for a split second before she catches herself and forced it limp again. Later that day, Ronny would only roll his eyes at the speedster and continue walking to his next destination.

Ronny will walk past a classroom where a girl with brown hair sits near the front reading a book. She doesn't speak to anyone she didn't know and her hair is bleached to a blonde-like color toward the back tips. She will later meet up with a strawberry blonde who she will leave with at the end of the day, and while waiting for their ride, will stand beside a silent brunette wearing a red jacket pulled over her head. This girl wouldn't tell of the inner struggle she deals with with being different, of how she despises herself secretly, increasing each time she makes another mistake with her power. This one will unintentionally overhear a conversation of a popular blonde, this blonde unknowing she is more different than she thinks. This blonde had stolen the once-best friend of a student, turning both into enemies. One of them which a gray-haired mutant is infatuated with—infatuated with a girl who has already given herself away many times over, taking hearts like a fashion statement, and unknowing that another he knows already harbors worries and emotions.

One of these young adults has the power to affect the lives of an entire town, and another has already conquered the entire school. One will inspire another all the way in another city which will inspire a breakthrough, while yet another has the ability to change the course of history. One _will_ change history, and another will not live to see graduation. Now, it is left to see how this will pan out and who it will be. There are four years to live through total, and the jumps into the middle; to find who one's self really is, and who are those that will try to bring others down, or to support in the elimination of an entire people.

There are four years they must attempt to live through, and here, it isn't so easy when you are _different_. Take it from a girl who despises herself, knowing the close possibility that her power can overtake her, the boy who struggles with the simple things of everyday living to just _keep_ _up_ , and the girl with issues from just the color of her skin.

Four years. Just four years they will attempt to live through.


	8. parents disturbed (Episode 4)

_**A/N: This chapter is Ronny-centric .**_

* * *

Ronny frowns down at the food on the porcelain dinner plate. The last time he had seen this dish had been by an impostor served on his school lunch tray, and since then he has been turned _off_ from mashed potatoes. But of course, he wouldn't—couldn't tell his mother that. These _real mashed_ potatoes, hot and pipping fresh, served with steaming gravy, salt and pepper is not why he has been staring down at his untouched dinner until it is now as cold as his fingertips. As he remains quiet, literally biting his tongue as he listens to the insults and jabs drifting from his parents' locked bedroom. Ronny spaces out, gaze caught by the remnants of steam leaving his food and he doesn't _dare_ look up until he hears his parents again. He also does not want to catch his father's eye and receive the bad end of his anger again. So, he keeps his hands squeezed together under the table, the voices echoing from the hallway.

"For the love of _Christ_ , Janet! When will you get through your thick skull already, woman? Do you _hear_ yourself?!"

"Do you hear _yourself_?! All you do is nag, nag, and _you_ _never_ keep your word!" his mother howls back.

This isn't a bad fight. No, this is merely a disagreement, a clean argument compared to the nasty ones that have happened before, when Ronny would wake in the middle of the night from something smashing, sometimes followed by screaming. But still, he always feels uncomfortable whenever his parents came to a disagreement. He felt uncomfortable because the either road it could lead down.

Ronny Di Gallo is only at the prime age of sixteen and he still remembers the days when all he wanted was to grow to be a man similar to his strong father, when he was younger and didn't know any better. But now, the arguing has increased just as many things were coming into focus—just like how Ronny finally connected the dots about the untouched convertible that sits in the garage, the one his father goes out and waxed twice a week and drives once in a blue moon; Ronny understands now that it is _much_ more than just a prize car won. He saw it, and his mother had always seen it the moment her husband drove it home with the largest smile Ronny had ever seen him wear in his life.

But the car had only been the beginning of the iceberg.

Ronny knows that he is kind of an awkward kid; he knows that he needs a little extra boost sometimes, to opposed most others his age. He is shy, cautious, and always a little paranoid with a _strictly good_ moral compass; "herb," Peter would call him, even though the speedster is inches shorter. But Ronny doesn't mind, Ronny didn't care; as long as he continues to be able to come back home, make good grades, and keep his mutation under wraps, he's good. Sure he would complain at times, but he was good.

He remains absolutely silent in his dinner seat, feeling the lump worsening in his throat as his parents' voices rise and their words grew uglier.

Ronny is the only one in his immediate family to possess a mutant ability. The first time it happened had terrified him so, and he had gone into shock and rushed to the hospital. Even there he had lied as told that he must have been dehydrated, even with the knowing look the lady nurse had gave. But he had been released with only a receipt. Never had there been any secrets between him and his parents before and it had been as if he could trust them with anything—at least his mother—but now, he felt weird about it. He wasn't even sure if he could trust them with his life just as any son should be able to. And every time he feels his skin begin to warm and crawl at the start of his powers and his parents are near, that familiar icy panic returns and the feeling of absolute doom seeps into his veins and destroys his voice.

The pain worsens in Ronny's throat but he swallows it down hearing his parents suddenly calm and his mother's shoes padding back across the carpet. He listens to her sit in her chair and doesn't look up until he hears his father do the same and his fork scraping across the plate.

Ronny takes a quick glance at his hands resting in his lap under the table, making sure they were still visible. To his relief, they were.

"Reynold..."

He almost jumps.

"You aren't hungry?" His mother is concerned—of course. The fizzling anger was still detectable in her tone, however.

Ronny swallows, forcing a steady grin. "I'm fine."

He knows that he has become the somewhat son his parents have always wished for; that those many times his father had oozed over his high school trophies from the past, trying to convince his son to follow in his steps and hoping it would rub off, of the many times Ronny's mother had spoken about girls and the possibility of getting a girlfriend. Ronny knew that they were sending him subliminal messages and signals. But the problem with it all is that he _doesn't_ want to join a sport and that he _doesn't_ want a girlfriend—at least, not from the options given at his school, he likes to tell himself. Ronny just wants to graduate high school, find a cure for this retched curse of a mutation, and to hopefully be able to hug his mother without fearing he would completely blend in with her blouse.

At the dinner table, he prays that his voice doesn't shake, but after catching a side glance from his father as he spoke, he knows that he had failed.

Ronny's mother stares at him a bit longer before turning back to her plate of cold food. Both of his parents were too proud and lazy to go and reheat their plates, chasing instead to spite the other with each's presence.

Ronny sighs, guessing that the rest of dinner would again be very, very quiet.

The house has indeed become quieter over the years as well, up to the point that Ronny would either stay in his room or at his friends' house just to avoid overhearing yet another fight. In fact, the thought of Ms. Maximoff's house sounds like a rather _good_ _suggestion_ in this moment. The woman was always kind whenever he came over, and Ronny was honestly a bit jealous at Peter and Wanda for that.

Their mother had been the first adult to be understanding and not fearful of his abilities the day she walked in seeing a floating pair of clothes sitting on her couch. Ms. Maximoff was the only person to have ever _witnessed_ Ronny freely use his abilities—besides his friends, of course.

The thought of being in that warm house is beginning to sound better with each passing minutes rather than sitting through the minefield here at his own home. The tension here is so thick that it could be another presence on its own. Ronny clears his throat in hopes to lift the air, but it doesn't help that his parents refuse to make eye contact with one other—

"Eat your food, honey."

—except with him.

Ronny breaths, his voice shaking slightly. "I'm not very hungry actually..." He can feel his skin beginning to crawl in that familiar sensation when he begins to blend in with his surroundings, and he knows that he has to get out of here _fast_. His fork clangs against the plate and he hurriedly pushes his chair back. "I'm really tired, a-and-and-and I had already ate at—-"

"Stay seated. Where're you going?"

Ronny freezes at his father's voice.

"You haven't eaten," the man explains.

Ronny glances at his half-eaten store-bought salisbury steak and a moment of hesitation follows. "I-I don't feel well. And I already have a lot of homework to do, and I ate before, so..."

His father lifts his chin toward his son, and he's still chewing. "You can do that homework later. Sit down." Ronny can hear his father straining to sound leveled. "How's those friend of yours doing? That odd, fast-talking one and the girl with the ridiculously long hair?" Ronny's mother is looking up now as well, and then his father states, "she's pretty. How's she?" His father doesn't break eye contact the entire time.

From being in the military, some of that strict and harsh mentality and mannerism reemerges periodically. Whenever he is truly overbearing, it just fueled the fire to whatever scenario is currently going on. Such as now.

Ronny pokes his tongue in his cheek. His hands are already sweating and he wants to leave.

His mother raises a hand to rest under her chin on. "What I'm still wondering is, why would you go and eat so close to dinnertime when you know I would have a meal made for you? Why couldn't you just tell me that you didn't want to eat this dinner and I didn't have to go out of my way so much tonight?"

"Well maybe he had actually _important_ _things_ he was busy with," his father mumbles.

The death glare his mother sends in reply is not overlooked.

Ronny glances to the cupboard where the china is kept, collecting dust and cobwebs. He can see the fading reflection of his hands in the glass of the cupboard and shoves them in his pockets. He swallows. "W-well, I—-"

His father's voice turns harsh. "Sit down."

"Stop, Riccardo!" His mother holds out her hand to her son and then turns toward her husband, finally speaking to him directly. "He said he didn't feel well." She eyes the man across from her, and the tension only seeming to escalade when his met hers.

While it is quite normal for Ronny to be shuffled between his parents during one of their feuds, it has been growing worse just as the volume during their feuds.

"Janet, you don't just let the boy that easily—-"

" _Don't_ you tell me what to do!" she snarls, pointing the end of her fork to her husband's direction.

Ronny swallows. His eyes flicker back and forth, watching the two's fighting resume. He fidgets on his feet, not knowing what to do.

His mother then turns to Ronny. "Go to your room, honey," she forces her tone soft for him, but is not very successful.

"I..."

"No! Stay right—-!" His father orders.

"I SAID GO TO YOUR ROOM!"

Ronny backs before turning and rushing to disappear into the confinements of his bedroom. He's sweating and locks the door just in time, he hears, full-blown shouting sounding from the dinning room down the carpeted hallway. As he pulls off his shirt—the sweating another warning just before his powers activate—he turns to the mirror on the back of his door and pauses. All he sees are his jeans. No body; just pants. He raises a hand to his short hair, and sees an appendage rise that is the same pattern as his curtain behind him.

Ronny grabs at his chest—lean and pale, and he can faintly outline his ribs when he sucks his stomach in—and he tries to calm his racing heart. Ronny swallows thickly, closes his eyes, and sighs in relief. He made it here to hide just in time.

Outside, something—the table?—scraps across the carpet violently. He can hear his mother hiss about something, and then his father retaliate in a response.

Ronny unbuckles his pants, pausing at hearing his stomach gurgle and noticing his skin slowly fading back into view.

Obviously, he has lied to his parents about being hungry, and even worse, it wasn't the first time he had. That is one of the things he feels bad about. Before, he could have spoken to them both about almost anything. And then that car was brought home, and their heated argument grew worse yet...

A lot can happen in a few short years.

For some reason, Ronny catches sight of a picture frame on his dresser. It is one his mother must have left purposely, because he thought this one hd been on the bookshelf just last week. The photograph, a bit worn and misused, is of his mother squatting and squeezing him in her arms in a hug. Both are smiling. Ronny thinks that he must have been around five years old at the time.

He sighs. He would have to return it to her tomorrow.

He shimmies out of his jeans, still trying to calm his own breathing, and crawls under the blanket, still a faded figure in a pair of boxers.

"Stop trying to make it seem like _you_ have it worse than _I_ do!" Ronny could hear his mother's matching anger.

"I have to spend _all day_ hearing and dealing about those _freaks_! I don't need to come home to this!"

Ronny knows that those _freaks_ are mutants, and he has never dared to correct his father.

His mother then screams something, and all Ronny could pick up was "well none of those freaks are here!"

He pulls his blanket to his chin, his eyes staring wide at the ceiling. He will remember to get up and turn on his ceiling fan, eventually.

Usually their fights can last for _hours_ , days even if they are too stubborn and angry at the subject. So when the noise outside continues, Ronny isn't very moved—until the splitting sound of something breaking before his parents' voices fad to what he supposes is in the direction to their shared bedroom.

Even when the house is finally quiet, it takes Ronny several more hours to finally fall asleep that night.


	9. insignificant facts,this daring game(Ep4

Meisha glowers in the mirror, loathing her reflection for what feels like the hundredth time. She's standing shirtless in the Maximoffs' guest bathroom, frowning at her reflection while her only two friends are continuing a card game in the living room, and the painful twisting knot in her chest tightens.

Well, one a _friend_ , and one she wants to consider _more_...

She had come over with Ronny, expecting to have a good time, but instead, is here with her shirt in her hands, still soaked with water from trying to wash out the staining spill, and her eyes beginning to sting at the start of tears.

In the mirror, all she sees is abhorrence, revolt, and misery. Meisha can hear the two others, Peter declaring loudly, enthusiastically, and Ronny replying with an over-reactant groan. She knows that she should be out there too, laughing and enjoying herself alongside them, but all she can do right now is glare at the trail of light freckles across her chest that her small white cotton bra couldn't hide.

Outside the small bathroom, Ronny is sitting on the long living room sofa reading aloud trivia that he orders the speedster to not cheat on, a command Meisha knows Peter isn't going to listen to anyway. And by the sounds of Ronny's muffled complaining, he is realizing that as well.

Meisha's eyes sting. Her nose begins to clog, and her fingers shake. Her throat tightens and she breaths, sighs, tries to stop the tears before they arise.

It always seems to end up this way anyhow

Her moods would fluctuate; one minute she would be joking along, and then the next, her stomach would knot and her chest would flutter, twist, and fly. Sometimes she would have to excuse herself. During these "episodes," sometimes her mother would smooth her hands through her daughter's hair and speak calmly to bring Meisha's emotions back under control. But that isn't the problem this time, Meisha found out not too long ago. In fact, she's been considering to put space between herself and the two boys out in the living room _because_ of it.

Peter; all trouble seems to start with him, Meisha thinks. Just the thought of his name makes her suspiciously uncomfortable and _anxious_. The reason why is something that took the girl some many months to figure out, and when she did, at first she didn't like it—she didn't even _like him_ the first time they met. She didn't want it, but as time went on she eventually came to a decision—a peaceful one rather than the more vile choice that had plagued her second conscious.

Ever since her mutation came in, Meisha has had to battle the... _second voice_ in her head, if you will

Something that has been seeming to worsen as she matures and as her hair grew

But that will be picked up on later

The young mutant turns to the wooden door of the small bathroom, catching the end of her braid slowly rise to nuzzle her heated face. She slips on her still-damp shirt and wipes her face dry, feeling her heart racing but choosing to ignore it. Drawing in an unsteady breath, she begins stroking her long braid that hangs over her shoulder like a long, red, awaiting python.

 **. . .**

Ronny is the first to ask when she returns. "What took you so long?" He had swallowed his food before speaking.

"What's it to you?" It is more of a statement than a question, and Meisha takes the empty space beside him on the long sofa.

He sees her braid twitch slightly behind her back. "Well are _you_ _okay_?"

Peter's eyes catches hers before darting back to Ronny, cheeks full, chewing a bite of a burrito.

Meisha doesn't answer, and instead turns to the other, frowning and ready to accuse. "When did _you_ go get burritos?!"

Peter folds his ankles. "You took too long," he explains, and then takes another bite as if spiting her.

"You're acting like it's _my_ fault...? Well if it wasn't for _you_ , I wouldn't have this big stain on my shirt!" She points at the large damp spot on her shirt that barely still hides her bra and bellybutton underneath.

"Yeah, you still love me though."

No one registers the blush that floods her cheeks then as her finger lowers and words escape her. She freezes, watching him smile to himself. Even though he only meant it in a joking manner, Peter is unaware of how much damage he causes and carries on unperturbed. Because sometimes—most times, actually—Meisha Babinski reads too far into dialogue and jesters. She'll get her expectations high and her hopes overreaching; shell start daydreaming, imagining, fantasizing, and then crash and burns when it doesn't pan out and magic isn't real and she's left looking at it all shattered at her feet. Because she tries too hard. She tries so hard and _hopes_ and _dreams_ and pushes...

Ronny waves his hand a bit to get her attention. He swallows the food that had been in his mouth. "Got these literally, like, two minutes ago," he answers the question the other boy ignores.

Meisha looks to him, but doesn't respond. When she glances back at the speedster, sees that he is now suddenly half finished with yet another fat burrito. He and Ronny are the only other ones occupying the living room, Wanda and her younger sister somewhere else inside. Peter has his feet propped up in the recliner chair that he had re-positioned across from the lounging sofa.

Meisha glances to the television, drumming on her knees. The television is either on mute or the volume is turned down low.

"Hey, we're almost halfway through with the trivia." Ronny waves a collection of cards in front of her. "You gonna keep playing or—- _Hey,_ give those back!"

Peter leans back in the recliner chair, thumbing through the trivia questionnaires and pulling away overtime Ronny reaches forward. Meisha sees that yet _another_ aluminum foil burrito wrapper had been added to the small pile on the coffee table. The faster mutant picks a card at random and holds it above his head, out of reach.

"True or False: a collective noun for a group of moles is a called a labour. ... _Huh_?" He lowers the card to see clouds gathering outside the window behind his two friends. It was nearing sunset.

Meisha takes advantage of his second of silence to ask, pointing to the pile of wrappers, "where's mine."

As Peter readjusts himself in the cushions, ready to playfully lie that there wasn't anymore food for her, Ronny makes a dive for the bag near the foot of the recliner. It is a rare feat for anyone to come out success from stealing from the speedier mutant, so Ronny can't help his outcry of triumph as he holds the greasy bag in the air. Peter rolls his eyes, grumbling under his breath.

Ronny digs out one of the last two burritos and hands one to Meisha, ignoring the other's death glare.

She smiles smugly and leans back, getting comfortable. Peter returns to flipping through the trivia cards when Meisha resumes the game. "Question," she orders.

Ronny grins, leaning back in the couch beside her. "Yeah, Pete. Since _you_ have the cards, _you_ ask the questions."

If his glare hadn't been harsh enough, it definitely is now. Since asking questions would mean staying _seated_ and _waiting_ for the right answer, Peter always tried to avoid being in that position. Plus, he can't go looking for the answers this way.

"I hate you both," he growls.

Meisha giggles as he shuffles the remaining cards in the deck. He pulls one at random. His eyes squint as he reads it to himself before out loud. "Ok... What's sc...sc...what is _sciophobia_ the fear of?" His nose wrinkles. He pulls the card close to his face.

Ronny shares an implying suspicious glance with Meisha. Both are going to _purposely_ act as if they didn't know answers to drag out the time, a sort of payback to Peter's jerk-like attitude.

This has been the typical day between the three. When they're not running from the the _populars_ at school or being an accomplice to one of Peter's heists, it is quite calming, _normal_ times. When they weren't struggling to keep their powers from the public, they were quite your average teenagers.

"Okay. How many triangles do you see here?" Peter holds up a card, showing a black and white diagram of a two-dimensional triangle made out of many smaller triangles.

Meisha's braid rises, the lose hairs at the end of her ponytail wrapper separating to form the number five, just as a hand would. She then changes it as she thinks aloud. "Wait, wait! Um...six...no, _eight_!" She begins counting the shapes, using the end of her braid to point at the card in the same manner that a human hand does.

Ronny snickers and Peter's glare is redirected towards him. Ronny sobers up.

All they want is to be normal and to be accepted without hostility. But in this world, anything too different is not acceptable and is taboo. After all, who would accept a girl who could manipulate her hair to work in the same way as a hand or a knife? Or a boy who can move nearly as fast as the speed of sound? Or another who could practically turn invisible? Certainly not many would accept them. It would only turn into another pitchfork crowd, another witch burning—or in this case, mutant-burning. But of course, this all isn't something they all take into consideration every day because there are, luckily, ways they have been able to hide their mutations and differences. Gratefully, so far they have been lucky.

The trivia questions continue until Peter's youngest sister wonders in the living room and Ronny's attention turns to the darkening sky through the window.

"Hey, it's raining!" the child exclaims.

Shuffling the cards, Meisha grumbles something about how they were supposed to be back home before the rain came. There had been a forewarning forecast on the news for all this week and she had promised her parents too to be back. Outside, Meisha is composed and patient about the situation, but inside she's screaming—if it wasn't for this darn weather, she could have had more time with him, albeit becoming trapped by to the rain, and maybe even advance past friendship _now_. Her cheeks begin heating at her thoughts, something Peter still doesn't catch as he shoos his sister back down the hallway and to her room, but Ronny is the one who definitely sees.

He leans down and whispers. "Are you okay?"

And Meisha hisses, "Yes, I'm _fine_!"

Peter returns in a flash, in the blink of an eye, and catches Ronny leaning up from Meisha's side. "What are you two mumbling about now?" He's eating an ice push-pop, feet propped back up on the sprung lower part of the recliner. He's forcing a lighthearted air, tries, and fails at chuckling jokingly.

"Nothing, nothing..." Ronny muses.

Meisha squeezes her hands between her knees, not looking either in the eye. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you know you two have been whispering together a lot lately..." He squints.

Ronny pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. "What? No we haven't!"

Peter's face then falls. "Oh _no_... Don't go on and fuck us up with some _falling for your friend_ crap!" he whines, becoming visibly annoyed. He's jumping to conclusions. "That's not right! Nothing's supposed to break us up! You can't go and betray me like that! That's some big time, messed up betrayal shit, man!" He then begins rambling off, worrying, fretting, the speed of his speech becoming difficult to follow.

Ronny waves his arms in distress and bringing the other to an abrupt stop. "No, _no_! We don't like each other! Not—-not like that. Right, Meisha?!"

She nods exasperatedly, her eyes large and innocent. But of course, Peter still frowns, unconvinced. Ronny had hoped she would have given a noise of disgust, but that nod was just as good. Only after a staring at the two for a minute longer does the speedster finally, visibly relax.

There's a moment of silence, the tension leaving the air. Then, Meisha's brows draw together, and her emotions change.

"I can't believe you..." Her voice starts small until she's asked to repeat herself. Meisha shakes her head at the gray-haired one. Her hands are resting on her hips; her light brown eyes wonder toward the direction of the front door. "I need to be home instead of it raining here..."

"Why?"

"Because she's gotta be back home to her _mommy_ so she can do literally everything because she's the most illin' daughter!" Peter answers for her. His words ooze with bitter sarcasm and blanketed vile. When Meisha begins to protest, Ronny too, and Peter presses further, turning to the latter. "She's gonna call you again tonight, Ronny? Right?" He leans in, holding his thumb to his ear and pinkie finger to his mouth, heightening his voice as he speaks to mimic a girl on the telephone. "She'll call Ronny and thee two of you will gossip about _boys_ all night long again?" And then he smirks, and falls backwards in his reclining chair.

"No, we never ev—-"

"Oh you know it's true!" He drills his index fingers into his cheeks and plasters a pasty smile on his face to further the taunt. He purposely speaks childishly to piss her off, throwing Ronny in the mix. "Oh, don't forget to make plans for what days you will be wearing _matching_ _frilly skirts_. Because, you know, _what else_ are you gonna do? 'Cause you don't want to have any _girl_ friends." Peter's face falls, and twists into a snarl.

Meisha's eyes narrow. "You're an asshole."

"Yeah? I don't see _you_ doing anything about it," he irks. "Don't like the truth?"

"What _truth_?"

"Hey! At least, I _have_ someone to call me at night!" Ronny blurts.

There's silence. It's known that Peter has a terrible habit to break about being distant. He and Meisha exchange an electrical charged stare that's not quite bitterness and not quite regret.

The trio is interrupted again as Wanda walks into the living room, asking where the youngest Maximoff sister is located. And when her twin just shrugs, Wanda changes the subjects and orders Peter to go out and _buy_ a chicken dinner this time with the money Marya left for them; she reminds him that he's responsible for their dinner. And as he rolls his eyes, mocking her too in a high pitch, Wanda dives and steals the last burrito from the bag on the coffee table in front of him. She throws his taunts back with by mocking his slow reaction speed—she bends over, leaning closer to his face, and takes a large bite from the burrito before walking away with a twist in her hips.

Peter examines the inside of the paper bag. There's a lightly damp stain from the grease at the bottom. "How did she even _know_ there was one left...?!"

The room quiets once more until Wanda returns, brown head peeking from around the corner. "Oh, and Marya said _no excuses,_ even if it rains today." And then she's gone, calling down the hallway for her little sister.

Peter lets out an exaggerated sigh.

Ronny, who had been gazing outside, slowly turns forward. "You know, speaking of _rain_...how's that _thing_ going on with Rainy-Juliet, huh?" His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek again, this time as he tries to hold in a smug smile.

For once, Peter takes a moment to answer. He sits still, his eyes only moving to Ronny's direction.

"What thing?" Meisha asks.

" _That_ thing..." The knowing, look grows on Ronny's face and he is now smiling quite wide.

"It's fine," Peter speaks slowly. "Talked to her a couple times. She said to get lost and never speak to her again."

 _Typical,_ they all thought

"And have you done that?" Meisha puckers her lips a little.

"Of course not!" Peter's mouth start to curl at the edges. "Yeah, we share English class together, but I've been trying to wave at her for the past couple days to say something before class but..."

"You're going to get yourself killed..."

"Why do you keep wanting to talk to her after she said _get lost_?"

Then he pauses, legitimately thinking it over. "...I...don't know... ...Why not?"

"And Mckenzie—-?"

Now, the large smile reappears. "I think I might have won this bet halfway already! Got her to agree to be my date on Spirit Week."

"Really?" Meisha is not convinced. She still feels wary to speak. "What did she say?"

Peter freezes for a millisecond as he thinks. "Well, she didn't—-she didn't say _no_...!"

"Peter, that's not a date."

"That's not the point!"

Ronny is pretty shocked so he hadn't spoken. He is still on the fact that _somehow_ Mckenzie Shabotz, one of the _most popular girls_ at their school had _someway_ agreed to hang around Peter—a weirdo, a _geek_ , as they were labeled—for an entire _week_. He was losing this bet...

"By the way," Peter drags out, enjoying the realization of his nearing victory. "Juliet's supposed to be back at the school with some other girl again setting up for Spirit Week or whatever, I think."

" _Tonight_?!"

Meisha's brows crease. "How could you _possibly_ know that?"

He smiles wickedly. "Don't worry about it," and the mutant winks. "Just know," he then points to Ronny, "to have my money when me and Mckenzie walk in together on Spirit Week!"

Ronny throws his hands up. "Hold on! No, the bet was for both Mckenzie _and_ Rainy, remember? You gotta keep talking to Rainy until Spirit Week. At least three days a week...unless you _forfeit_ , Maxi-sore loser?"

" _Never_! Not for forty bucks!"

"And I'm going to be generous and give you leeway and change it to being until the _end_ of Spirit Week for you."

Peter's smile is devilish, shark-like. "Fifty bucks."

"What!?"

"Fifty-five bucks! ...Or are you chicken?"

"No!" Ronny sucks his teeth. "Deal!"

The boys clap hands together with an echoing smack, in a similar position to an arm wrestle. And then for good measure, began to arm wrestle across the coffee table—" _without_ powers!"

The evening soon returns to waiting out the rain. Meisha phones her parents, apologizes about not making it home before the downpour. Peter offers to walk her home but she turns him down, explaining that her parents would rather her stay dry. A few more trivia rounds were played, and Peter _still_ cheats. Ronny calls his bluff, and Meisha remains silent to neither's noticing.

She wonders if she should voice that even _if_ Peter and Mckenzie show up together for Spirit Week—a feat that would only happen in someone's _dreams_ —that it wouldn't be genuine, that she would only be playing her friend for kicks. It isn't unheard of for her to do so anyway. But Meisha watches her two friends and decides against it. Likely wouldn't believe her anyway; the teen had a skull made of bricks and can be as stubborn as an ox. And so Meisha folds her hands across her knees and watches the two males arm-wrestle, and feeling her hair twitching, her braid twisting, irritated like a stressed cat. Her short nails leave little red indents inside her palms.

Wanda comes and leaves the living room one last time, retreating with a box of cookies from the kitchen for her sister and herself to share. Ronny flips through the television channels. Meisha sits quietly on the couch with her hands clasped together. She neither moves nor speaks for the rest of the evening. No one asks why because no one seems to notice how she sits absolutely _still_ through the next hour, eyes trained ahead, her eyes only moving. No one asks because no one had cares enough, she convinces herself.

* * *

Her second mutation surfaced when she was thirteen. At first, she thought that it was some sort of _trick of the mind_ that her hair felt particularly _stiff_ whenever thinking about a hammer or slicing a bologna sandwich or when she was _angry_. And for the longest time, Meisha kept telling herself that it was _impossible_ to get a paper cut from strands of hair—because it _was_ ; it _is_...it _should_ be. Well, the day she was proved wrong that day the school's girls restroom when everything went to hell; when she was alone and stalked and then cornered and she saw red, red, _red_ ; those few years ago was also the day it seemed that _voice_ awoke.

And as Meisha sits in front of her bedroom mirror, tears running down her face, that voice in her subconscious comes forth, growing in volume, growing worse.

She's seated with her hair completely undone, it falling down to the carpet in an light red-orange un-brushed mess. Meisha runs a hand from her hairline down to her shoulder. Her eyes are burning at the start of tears again. She's staring into what she thinks is a fucked-up reflection before herself.

 _Why?_  
Why did she have to be this way? Why was she born like this?  
Why was she even born?

Her face twists into a deep scowl and she doesn't even attempt to restrain herself as her hair rises on its own, separating as if to be several appendages, several additional limbs or parted waves.

This isn't the first time she's wasted countless minutes in front of her desk mirror, trying to convince herself that those retched pattern of freckles across her nose and monster-colored eyes of hers that her mother calls _pretty_ ; that, _why_ with this nose that she has, and what _cruel joke_ was it to make her hair so _red_ and unable to trim?

Her hair

That is one of the things she keeps most precious and sacred, but it is also her worst enemy. When her parents realized why Meisha legitimately _cried_ during haircuts, and her saying "the voice told me to" as an excuse when she was three years old (which she does not personally remember) were not imagined or faked, everything changed. Even now, she finds herself absentmindedly clenching and unclenching her fist in a hopeless effort to erase the extra, traitorous voice in her head.

It's like a second conscious  
A more vile, vicious one

Her eyes dart around her room and another tear falls from her eye. She looks for some way of escape, something to stop it from speaking, begging, and her body is trembling, her vision is blurring, and soon she won't be able to hear herself think besides the constant commands. Her hair stretches out further around her, separating into long, waving tentacle-like arms. A choke for air leaves her lips and she grinds her teeth. The voice is growing callous, telling her things to do, things she didn't want to do, and it lies.

 ** _He'll never like you. Go there and slit her throat. Kill them, get rid of them, that's how._**

It would speak

 _You just have to get more_ attention, she would try to talk over it, _that's all. Put yourself more out there. No need...no need to be extreme._

 ** _Drag them across the floor just like last time! With them out of the picture—-_**

"STOP IT!" Her palms press flat to her ears. Her eyes squeeze shut and she's leaning over her knees, shallowly breathing.

The voice is telling her things she didn't want to do, but things that deep down somewhere she suspected that she did.

 _The blood...that...so much blood..._ Meisha's hands digs into her scalp. She sits up, back arching, and her wide eyes dart to her dresser drawer.

 ** _That blood!  
_** It feels like it smiles

In one swift movement, she dives for the white-painted drawer and raises a pair of scissors to one of her locks that she grabs from the air. She shouts again in a dare, and in a way the scene is similar to holding a razor to another's throat.

Meisha is to turn seventeen in a few months, and to her family she hides all of this, every time.

"STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT!" And then she screams and threatens to cut the lock off if the voices don't stop.

The voice doesn't quiet suggesting of blood and pain and tears being the only option for her, about things she didn't want to do but the voice is making them seem like the _only_ option. It would always speak of devious and demonic ways to any and every problem she came across. It was insistent like it was a _life or death_ matter, and Meisha almost wanted to believe it was true.

" _I SAID SHUT UP!_ " she screams inside an empty room.

Her eyes squint and she cringes, figuring that this was the only way to stop the voice as she holds the scissors in her trembling hand. At least, when she does use the scissors, it all will stop for a while. Her scream retches from her throat and echoes throughout the house as Meisha squeezes the handle of her scissors, snipping as close to her scalp as she could reach, and a clump hairs falls loose. Luckily, no one else is home to hear.

While for many girls, cutting ones hair is a difficult and emotional process that would probably be filled with second thoughts and maybe tears of regret. For Meisha's however, it was more on a literal level. While she _did_ experience second thoughts, the pain was less emotional and more so _physical_.

Her hair is a part of her  
and it was like cutting off a finger, an arm, or making a deep slicing cut

While she sits alone in her bedroom, hands covering her face as a fresh wave of tears wash over her, she feels so, so alone. And there is no one she can talk to, she knows, no one who would understand. Because she's ugly, a _goddamn mutie_ , crazy, a psycho—she has two voices in her head, for Jesus fucking Christ—and anyone she could possibly tell would likely, very possibly shun her. They'd leave her, she'd be disowned, and left on her own.

And so she cries. Her shoulders shake, her hair having fallen limp again and the very tips spill out on the carpet. There were no more voices besides her own sharing her head now, and though there is no blood, there is still pain.

God, there is pain.

She flexes her fingers once; she curls her toes. Meisha sobs into her hands, not knowing if the tears were more from the pain or from this wave of temporary relief.

After recovering, her eyes are bloodshot and face redden. The scissors are returned to her desk drawer and she sweeps the trimmed red hairs across the carpet and under her bed to be vacuumed later. She cleans her face with cool water and puts on a fresh pair of clothes and braids her hair into a single, tight, thigh-lengthened braid. The last thing she remembers that late afternoon is shakily crawling into bed and wiping free a few stray tears.

* * *

 _"Oh yeah, and Marya wants you to go buy a chicken for dinner. The already-cooked ones from Publix,"_ _Wanda informs, leaning against the wall before making a dive for one of her brother's burritos. "_ _The money is on her pillow."_

Peter shuffles the packaged chicken under his arms. It's cool outside, some time in mid-Spring. The chicken is held in a round plastic container, radiating heat. He pulls his jacket closed.

 _"And actually buy it this time, Marya said."_

"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah..." Peter grumbles under his breath, remembering the orders his twin passed.

It us perhaps fifteen minutes after the rain had let up when Ronny and Meisha left, her parents pulling up in the driveway to take both home. The clouds above are still an ashen overcast as it had been then, and currently there is a light drizzle of rain falling. Meisha and Ronny had been picked up maybe forty-five minutes ago in the Maximoffs' front driveway.

As Meisha sashayed to her parent's car, Wanda had stood with Peter in the doorway waving goodbye. Wanda had seen Meisha's father give a parting salute through his tinted windshield. The car hadn't even pulled off down the road when Wanda turned to her brother and reminded him of the dinner he's in charge of tonight. And of course, he hadn't shown that he particularly _favored_ the duty, his lips pulling up ans his nose wrinkling and he groans. And Wanda only turned to him with her hands on her hips.

And for some reason Rainy had come when she had done that and it wouldn't leave his mind

Now, he's jogging from the grocery store with his goggles on when he feels a drop fall from above. He isn't jogging very fast, but still it makes him pause, slide his goggles to his forehead, and look up to the light grey sky. He must have been slowing down again, he thinks, because it's unusual for him to actually feel rain _falling_ rather than him running _through_ it.

The sidewalk is almost clear of occupants, save for a random soul, periodically.

Peter adjusts the pre-cooked chicken in his arms again and pushes his goggles further up and into his damp hair. He remembers that there is a group of students at the school who are setting up for Spirit Week. It's around four o'clock, so they would probably be leaving soon, and he pities the poor souls whose job it is.

The thought of Rainy had come for some reason

Peter wrinkles his nose and his lips form in a slight pout. The school isn't that far from his current location, and he can get there even sooner with his speed. He could make it home and back there in about...ten minutes, maybe.

 ** _. . ._**

The sun's crawl across the sky is the only indication of the uncounted hours they must have stayed here. A boy who goes by the name Liam gives a purposely _loud_ indicating sigh for what is possibly the twentieth time this afternoon. There is a group of students stuck here on the campus grounds; they have all been stuck listening to Sherry chatting away with the two other girls about one thing or another, none of it particularly catching Rainy's ears or knowledge, so there hadn't been a need for her to speak up or contribute to. When Sherry doesn't turn to his attention, Liam rolls his eyes and sighs again just as exaggeratedly. Rainy looks up and catches a dark boy nicknamed Skeeter sending a judging look her way. And so, she sits there on the tile floor across from Sherry, penciling in letters and painting colors on the ten-foot makeshift banner the two are supposed to be finishing— _supposed to be_ , as Sherry has been talking more and working less.

This is the third and probably _final_ time Rainy is brought along to sneak inside the high school. Right now, she could have been doing something useful with her time instead of working on displays for an event that very few care for, and more so for what happens at the end of the school day—she should be studying for an exam, or finishing the last of that romance novel she checked out from the library not long ago, or she could see if there was an informing special or documentary on television.; she could be sitting outside as the weather warmed, or watch the stars, or _something_...

 _Who is she kidding?_ This is the most time-passing activity she is going to get for some time. At least, it's better than lying in her bed and waiting for sleep to finally force her eyes to shut.

 _She has nothing better to do with her life_

Finally, Sherry snaps around to Liam, who has come to stand behind her. Rainy had barely been paying attention when Liam whines for attention again and Sherry, finally having enough, gives it to him. Now, she's not raising hr voice, but is telling him off from her seat on the tile floor. "...and before you want to _insult_ me, you might want to consider that for _someone_ to take you seriously to not to do so while wearing _those_ shoes and ugly _sweater vest_."

Liam gapes. "This is my Key Club sweater!"

Sherry's brows rise, silently speaking, " _exactly._ "

Rainy leans her back against the whitewashed wall and watches as Sherry tells off one of the most inconsiderate and privileged boys in their year. The only reason Sherry accompanied him is because of a mutual friend—the student body president—to help with decorating Spirit Week banners and posters. Personally, Rainy doesn't start animosity unprovoked, and she obeys orders she is given like a robot—because _why not_ , with nothing else to do—and she had tagged along but "don't speak anything to that canary bird." (The canary bird being Liam; his chatter and yellow hair.) And she's told that if he talks down to her, that Sherry would take care of it. The boys had told Rainy to "just don't touch anything" and that they didn't need her help. Rainy hadn't argued and had heed their order, not holding any personal objections anyhow, but Sherry had butted in, ignoring that they weren't too pleased with having the razor-mouthed Juliet Capulet along with them.

 _But then again, when was the last time Rainy truly had the urge to do anything?_

Rainy finishes painting the left corner of a welcome banner, watching and keeping silent. Her eyes are exhausted, with slight bags due from fluctuating sleep patterns. And her head tilts back, wondering how it would be possible for a human to burn holes in the plaster ceiling above with their eyes, stemming from the daggers Sherry is shooting with hers. Liam's next groan is an aggravated one.

And that's how it has been for a good, long while following: of Rainy leaning back on the freezing tile, tuning out Sherry and Liam's bickering until the strawberry blonde stomps into her line of sight, then Rainy's world is shoved and turning on its side. Sherry freezes, accidentally nudging the other over too much. Rainy holds her usual blank stare, focusing up at a random cluster of pock holes on the ceiling.

"Get up, Rainy." Sherry leans over her friend again to look Rainy in the eyes. "I'm sick of being around _losers_. C'mon. I need your help finding some duct tape to finally hang this up so we can leave." She knows the other girl would only agree.

And without a word, Rainy gets up and follows the strawberry blonde down one of the school's long hallways. Rainy steals a glance at Sherry, hearing offensive accusations being called after them by Liam. She sees Sherry square her jaw and level her shoulders and keeps her hard, steady glare straight ahead. And if Rainy had any access to her emotions, she would have became enraged, would have likely ran back and punched Liam squarely in the jaw.

But she didn't  
and so she doesn't

It takes coming to the end of the second hallway that Liam's hollers finally fade out. And that is when Sherry finally gives a sigh of relief. Rainy steals another glance, and wonders if she should practice her own facial expressions in the mirror again, having classified the practices an unprofitable cause to continue.

Sherry grits her teeth. "I just wanna—- _punch_ that idiot in the _face!_ " Her nails bite into her clenched palms.

Rainy keeps up with the other's pace, both looking straight ahead.

"He gets on my _nerves._ _So much_ , you know?"

Rainy looks over again.

"Why won't you _say_ anything? He doesn't bother you at all?!"

"Not really." Rainy shrugs. "It could be worse."

This earns a wide-eyed look. "Worse? Like _how_? The things he said were so _offensive_ and said that you would have been more useful back in the _fields_ if—-" Sherry stops herself before her anger gets the best of her again. Her hands raise and slowly fall, palms facing down, as she calms herself.

Rainy opens her mouth but quickly snaps it shut, deciding that "well, I don't know. If I had _feelings_ and then was _aggravated_ , then _maybe_ I'd tell you" not the best thing to say. There is already one too many who know about her _"issue"_ than she'd like, than she planned. The hallway falls silent once more, except for their footsteps.

 _"You were right—just to set your mind at rest—I cannot feel._

 _Now, what do I have to do in order to keep you quiet about it?"_

It really was one too many in her opinion.

 _'Definitely could be worse,'_ Rainy thinks.

"I wish I wasn't so bothered about things like you are," Sherry admits suddenly. "He just... _arrgh_!" Her shout echoes; it releasing unused energy. "I just want to strangle him _so_ _bad_!" She curls her manicured fingers around air and shakes, as if strangling her frustration in the air.

"Then why don't you?"

This earns another look from the strawberry blonde, almost as if she can't believe the brunette's words.

Rainy turns her palms up in a slight shrug. "Well then why do you keep complaining about it?"

A beat passes with Sherry still staring ahead before shaking her head and muttering, "whatever."

Sherry and Liam almost _always_ end up arguing or disagreeing on _something_ whenever placed within vicinity of each other. It's something Rainy notices that is very commonly accompanied with Liam's ears turning a bright red and him walking away, grunting the most obscene beliefs under his breath.

 _Rainy observes constantly_

Liam doesn't like having either of the girls around, his responses being some that Rainy is conditioned to expect. And it doesn't bother her. Nothing really _bothers_ her...

Sherry rubs her arms. The A/C unit kicks on in the pipes above.

Allegedly, there is a detention session going on this afternoon, so, according to Liam, now is the perfect time to sneak in and out undetected. But Sherry is still nervous about all this, about being at school in after-hours. They could get in a lot of trouble.

"I'm still creeped out from last time," Sherry admits, still rubbing her arms.

"Last time?"

"Yes..! Those noises that we kept hearing...!"

Rainy thinks back, clearly remembering how her friend had jumped nearly a foot in the air at being spooked; she remembers coming across the boy in her class, Pedro—she can't remember his name—the one with gray hair. "We?"

"Yes, _we_! Now, you can't say that you hadn't heard _anything?_ "

Rainy looks off to the side, keeping her lips sealed.

Sherry sighs loudly. "I swear...this school is haunted now."

"You say anything is haunted when you get scared."

"No, I don't... But this time I _swear_!"

"Whatever..." Rainy mimics, and then lies, "I'm bored." Though she can't feel, she can tell when a mistake could be made, and she is close to making one. She decides to change the subject so she doesn't reveal too much. "So, what's going to happen with the banner? It's finished, right? You said that we should leave and get away from those guys."

Sherry doesn't answer immediately. "I'm sorry," she sighs, apologizing for something Rainy isn't sure what for. "I know they're jerks. They shouldn't be that way. And I shouldn't have asked you to come. Neither of us should have come... I should have not agreed to this..." She rubs her right arm. Then in a self-depreciating whisper, she scolds, "I'm so darn gullible..."

There's another brief silence that passes. Rainy acts as if she hadn't heard.

The sun is lowering in the sky, and it's going to be nearing dinnertime soon. Rainy thinks that there is a chance her parents will be worried for her—her father, almost definitely, and her mother if she is in a sober mind. Sherry's parents—oh, most definitely.

"I just want to get over with this—for Spirit Week to hurry up and come. People talk about this for all of the first half of the year and it's never nothing special. It's just the same contests, people hooking up, and some crazy event always happens at the end. And it's not like anyone really _cares_ about a dress code for the week. ...But I do wish that the movie would be shown out in the field like last year. That had been fun." Sherry pouts.

Rainy tucks away a strand of hair that strays into her view. "What happened last time?"

Sherry forgot that her friend hadn't stayed after the events, and Rainy already doesn't pay much mind to headlines and tabloids. "I'm not sure... I just know that some guy had been found almost dead in the girls' bathroom. At least, that's what I heard."

Rainy's brows don't even rise at her friend's story. "So this place _is_ haunted?"

"Pfft, _no_!" Sherry rolls her wrist. "He died at the _hospital_ , not here," she answers as if saying _"of_ _course."_ But Sherry then bites her lip. "That didn't help did it?"

It's Rainy's turn to stare.

 _blood_

 _blood blood blood blood blood blood_

 _It was a girl_  
who found him bleeding out on the white restroom tile floor  
barely alive

 _BLOOD_

 _RUMORS_

They continue walking, Rainy ignoring that Sherry has inched noticeably closer when they hear the sound of a desk scraping across the floor. Rainy shrugs it off. They are on their way to the art room again in search for a few last supplies to finish. Rainy scans the area.

Contrast to her friend, Sherry is known as a happy girl who is always optimistic, in the few memories Rainy can recall. Sherry's parents are very well off also—Rainy sees this in how Sherry almost effortlessly keeps up with the latest trends and fashion. At school, she isn't necessarily popular, but almost everyone knows of her and those she comes in contact with are pleased by her. And Sherry is a little spoiled, a little oblivious as well, especially when it comes to picking up hints and signals. So in situations as this, when needing to break away, Rainy will have to come up with an alternative to sidetracking her friend.

 _Rainy remembers the day she met the girl with a large bow in her red hair on her first day in the new school. Sherry had immediately turned around and introduced herself with the same wide smile she has to this day._

They near the art room. Judging by the setting sun outside the hallway windows, they will have to leave in the next half hour to make it home before dark. But Sherry has started up talking again and though Rainy hadn't even flinched at hearing the sound of shoes sliding out into the hallway not far behind them, only for there to be no one there, she knows that her friend isn't as settled.

Sherry points to a random classroom door, still chatting away about one thing or another that Rainy tunes out. Rainy remains with her placid composure and hands behind her back as Sherry jiggles the doorknob until remembering that with a particular _kick_ the door could open—a trick she overheard from Liam. She barely checks around before dashing inside and rummaging through the teacher's supplies once more, leaving Rainy in the doorway. Sherry is still chatting away—this time about something Rainy's other friend, Michelle, had come up and spoken to her—as she slides out a large bin from the supply closet and begins rummaging through it, so indulged in her spoken story that she doesn't hear the slight and completely out of place snicker behind Rainy in the doorway.

This is the second time around, almost _exactly_ as before. Rainy almost expects this to happen.

Sherry tells the story out loud: "...and then she had said, _'then you had better get your snooty self out of my face before I show you something really unpleasant_. _'_ And so I said ' _then if you're so smart why don't you step up to the plate, big talker'._ "

Rainy watches with folded arms now at Sherry leaning over into the large, deep bin of art supplies, her feet kicking up as her story continues and she dives deeper. Rainy dares not jump in, lest it distracts the girl more and they stayat the school even longer. But she is sure to add a periodic replying "uh huh" and "yeah." Her eyes darts and head turns to the side at hearing a dry crunch behind her.

 _While Rainy may have lost her sense of touch_

 _That of hearing has not dulled at all the passing years._

"And can you believe it? She dare try to insult _me_ with that fake brand she sported!" Sherry continues.

It isn't Rainy who replies, "I know! Must've been damn awful!" in an obnoxiously higher pitch and slight southern accent.

Rainy doesn't need to look to know who had given that smart-ass and sarcastic comment behind her, who it is biting down on a Payday candy bar and grinning, smirking, stiffling laughter. In fact, instead of whirling around—like Peter assumes—Rainy merely shuffles her arms and backs up to the doorframe.

"I bet it was real tacky too, huh?!" He cups his mouth with a hand and comments back to Sherry in an almost mocking tone that sounds far too enthusiastic than Rainy's.

Sherry still doesn't comment, taking that as a cue to continue on.

He takes a final bite from his candy bar then leaves with hurried footfalls, shoving the wrapper in his back pocket.

While she knows that he is no longer beside her, Rainy knows that he is close enough in earshot. And so, purposely loud enough for him to hear, she baits him, like all those stupid men that come into her home and the ones who pressure her in the back of the hall. She baits him just to get his attention and rile him up, because she doesn't know him that well and couldn't care to. And how could she?

"Well...you truly are ignorant."

"I mean, it would have been fine if she'd just _asked_ , and...Rainy?" Sherry suddenly looks up to find Rainy staring off down the hall. The brunette snaps her head back forward, hearing her name. "You okay?"

Rainy hesitates. "…Yeah. Listen, there's something I forgot to take with me. I think I left it back there with the banner."

Sherry is confused. "...You sure you want to go back there? I mean—-"

"It's something I have to tend to as soon as possible." She's looking down the hall again.

"Uh, ok..."

But Rainy doesn't wait for approval and Sherry trails off to herself as the brunette disappears outside the classroom door. When she is some distance away, she calls aloud, low enough from Sherry hearing but loud enough. "I know I remembered that last time I told you not to interact with me any further."

There's a screech of sneakers across the tile that come to a stop beside her and then a muffled deep voice. "Now what if I just wanted to say hi—-"

Rainy turns. "No need," she interjects, still incredibly calm. The brunette had been prepared to kick him behind the knees, but he has stepped out of reach.

Peter smirks, chewing on more food. "Oh, and so _now_ you remember _that_ , huh—-?"

"...Irrational assumption."

He pauses. " _What_?"

"That is an irrational assumption—it is illogical for there to be any logical way that _you_ could hold _any_ considerable unbased knowledge of me, enough to state any definite facts."

He rolls his eyes. "English, dammit! Talk like normal people!"

Rainy looks at him directly, a finger raises. "You," she gives a waggling gesture before pointing at herself, "don't—know—me."

"Well that will all be fixed if I wanted to get to know you, wouldn't it?"

"Well what if I wanted to finish using that box cutter? This time not making a mistake?" she threatens.

There is a moment of pause between the two, glaring.

"Why can't you just be nice?"

"Why can't you leave me be?"

And silence.

His look is stern now. "Look, I don't know why you're so against a guy like me from even—-"

"Because you obviously don't know how to do what you're told, even when it's good for you."

Peter cracks a little smile unintentionally. "You're right, I don't."

"And I know that you're only here for whatever dare it was. That's why any geek would ever come up to talk."

He shifts his weight on his feet, his eyes darting to the side before looking at his tattered sneakers. "Wow, ouch. No faith?"

She folds her arms. "Don't say that you want to help me either, like some idiot. I know why you're here and I don't care. This is none of your business. You can't do anything for me." She jabs a finger in his direction. "Besides, any form of kindness will be taken as hostility."

He doesn't talk for another moment, his dark eyes glaring into hers. "How would _you_ know that, when you don't give anyone a try—-not that I'm _trying_ to, anyways," he shrugs.

Rainy grits her teeth, hoping she looks intimidating and serious. "Leave—-"

"-—Me be~" He finishes for her, purposely speaking in a whine. "I know. I know what you said; I'm not deaf."

Rainy's stare is unwavering.

They are disturbed by Sherry calling out Rainy's name, her sounding unsteady and unsure, and automatically Rainy turns in the direction. She isn't sure how much of an idiotic move that was or whether Peter _cares_ when she lifts her chin and gives her back to the boy. She hears him chuckle and speak in a low tone: "you really should watch yourself, sweetheart. You could end up snapping at the wrong heels."

She hesitates, turns back around, another insult ready, but finds that he is no longer there and the hallway is now empty as if he disappeared in thin air. She contemplates, concludes that he must have slinked into a nearby classroom. And she isn't going to _look for him_ either way. She isn't his mother; why should she?

Rainy's ponytail sways as she turns on her heels, returning to the classroom and to answer her friend's call for help.

 ** _. . ._**

"Took you both long enough!" Liam voice rings as the girls return.

Skeeter is still sitting on the floor, scratching his dreads and unbothered as if used to the spoiled boy's outbursts. He chews on a small ball of tobacco, a small white cup in his hands that he uses to spit in.

They all were very used to the spoiled parakeet's outbursts, actually.

Rainy just keeps ahead and her hands crossed over her skirt, behind her back.

Sherry is the only one to show displeasure. " _Zip it_ , Osborn! You're not finished either, so I don't know why _you're_ complaining."

Rainy notices the spark that ignites behind his eyes before Sherry even finishes speaking. Immediately, the boy motions to his completed contribution to Spirit Week, an ugly and neon colored painted poster board drying over the newspaper spread across the floor. He's quite proud of the ugly thing, Rainy can tell. Her look is still slightly bored, and very indifferent, the boy's growing in a lopsided, shit-eating grin. "Ha! That is where you're _wrong_ —we've been _finished_!"

Sherry huffs, handling her shock and not wanting to pout in anger. She is going to let his victory slide... _this_ time. She ignores his mocking as she helps Rainy pick up the banner they had been painting.

Sometime in Liam's ambitious rambling he goes too far like he always does. This time it's, "that's why women shouldn't be doing hard work. They need to stay at what they're best at: babies and staying in the kitch—-"

And he doesn't finish. Both Skeeter and Rainy were watching the chaos unfold _literally_ in front of them, Sherry growing more and more pissed the more hot air Liam spouted. And of course, Skeeter had let out a snicker when the entire roll of masking tape goes _flying_ to hit Liam squarely in the back of the head, the sound an echoing, sickening _CRACK!_ that stops his talking. The boy gives a whiny "OW!"

Needless to say, Liam doesn't bitch as the girls leave their banner, Sherry practically grabbing Rainy by the arm to leave and without another word. Liam looks to Skeeter still seated on the floor and snaps "what?!" Skeeter struggles, freezes, and then fails at holding in his laughter; Liam's face is beet red.


	10. 10a: presumption (Episode 5)

Rainy Capulet is the daughter of the town's next potential mayor. Her father has been preparing for a high political career for nearly half of her life. He has all the fitting characteristics; he has a sparkling white smile, perfected firm handshake, and polished penny loafers that match his Leisure suits. He drinks his whiskey straight, right down to the gullet, or tequila, the few times he does once in a blue moon or on special occasions. Many older citizens refer to him as the _better_ candidate out of the three; that he is a brave, proud family man who cares for the community. His high reputation has weighed heavily on his daughter, obscuring the lenses of her classmates and to take on assumptions.

"She's so mean!"

"She's must be so ignorant...shame"

"Yeah, _haha_!"

Rainy expects insults like these now—it comes almost as a guarantee. She knows that it is from bitterness, sometimes jealousy, and poor confidence. If the insults and presumptions weren't intended for her father, Rainy will likely be on the receiving end; without her father, she wouldn't be as well-known in her school as she is, or as disliked. Without her father, she likely wouldn't be spat as many harsh words and fake smiles. And there likely would have been less of those who approach with stale grins, hoping to hang around for a dollar bill to fall.

But most of the assumptions were just that and rumors started by immature teens who can't take rejection.

"I bet she wouldn't know a horse's ass from her own face"

"You aren't even that pretty anyway"

Rainy didn't mean for it so many times it happened, but truly, many did not know how to take it when someone told them _no_. And it wasn't like it had been particularly _her fault_ , all the way. She just can't feel anything towards them—really—but it wasn't like she can _tell_ them that. So, all she answers is "no," and closes up when they became particularly persistent, pointed out reasons why—of her unkept attire, holier-than-thou outlook, or terrible grammar, or if they are asked by those typical boys attempting to imitate the _bad boy_ character played by some chiseled Adonis actor that girls to swoon over.

The insults don't hurt anymore. No, by now they were only words that passed in one ear and out the other. Besides, even if she _wanted_ to feel something from them now, she _couldn't_.

"You know, I heard that her dad—you know, that guy running for mayor—I heard his wife's been cheatin'"

"Oh my god...!"

Rainy has always known, actually. She isn't as stupid as some perceive her to be, especially with as young as she had been when finding out that her parent's marriage arrangements weren't exactly... _normal_.

Rainy is always praised for excelling in her studies and being the obedient, silent, _prefect_ daughter.

She had been suspicious though—about her parents' marriage health—when she noticed that the spare room in their home was seeming to be occupied more and more when family hadn't visited, and her parents' bedroom began to have a different, strong scent lingering in the air. And then there were the sudden sounds that would wake her in the middle of the night periodically. They were random sounds, thumps, and muffles, but it didn't happen much—but still.

Back then, second grader Rainy would sit up in her twin-size bed just listening to the house at night. Her nightlight bathes her bedroom in a warm gold, pictures of fish, whales, and octopus cycle around the walls. She used to sleep with a stuffed white rabbit, its hard plastic pink nose scratched. Her mother often braids her hair in two plaits for bed. She would be able to hear the random sounds, some squeaking, maybe a low muffled voice she could hear from in her dark bedroom aglow by her nightlight plugged in a corner. Her father left the house before the time she was put to bed, so the only thought her young mind could conjure up as the cause of the noises was that it were her two parents arguing after her father's return.

But it wasn't arguing  
And it definitely weren't her two parents

There has been a handful of times Rainy has tiptoed down the hallway to the guest bedroom since that night in second grade. But for some reason, her small fist always hovered above the door, never knocking and complaining like she would have or _should_ have.

Rainy remembers when she confronted her mother about it. It had been a few months later. It had been sometime over breakfast, her father already left for work, and her mother commenting on how tired her daughter appeared that weekday morning. Her mother had been lighting another joint whilst popping the question. When the smoke unintentionally swirled in Rainy's direction, she exhaled deeply, somewhat wanting to mimic her mother but heeding the order to never try the substance.

"You and Dad were arguing again last night."

And her mother then pauses, her brows furrowing. "Me and your father weren't arguing…" Her words muffle around the rolled marijuana joint between her teeth.

Little Rainy rubbed her eyes and reached for the spoon to take a bite of cereal as her mother poured the milk. "I heard you both from my bedroom. You were kinda loud…and it kinda sounded like you were yelling but like you were trying not to wake me up again."

Her mother froze. At that moment, the woman knew that her daughter was far more perceptive than she initially thought, and dreaded the day she would have to explain this. Who knows, maybe Rainy had already snuck up in the middle of the night and peeked in the door without her mother's knowledge; maybe her daughter had seen but didn't know how to interpret it with her limited young mind..? She knew that Rainy would have questions, much like she had when she first saw her own mother light up a rolled joint on the Fourth of July.

Rainy's mother braced her hands on the counter, feeling her heart stutter. This was a situation she had hoped to keep away from her daughter until years later.

What if Rainy had gotten up in the middle of the night and peeked through the door?!

She hadn't  
And that would happen later on, almost to the end of the year  
Little Rainy Capulet would witness a scene that she would not be able to wrap her mind around around,  
And she would also push it to the far reaches of her consciousness

That conversation would be followed by many of similar curiosity in her coming years, including in politics, why were there different men coming and going from their home, and the usual questions of budding puberty.

Now, Rainy sat still, alone in her bedroom that night with her nose in another novel. Her feet are propped against her headboard and music is playing from the record player probably in her parents' bedroom. She wants a change of scenery from seeing her father at the table with his nose buried in some kind of political mess, cold, stale coffee at his elbow, and her mother under some kind of influence.

After school those few days ago, after throwing a roll of duct tape at Liam's head, Sherry had called her mother for a ride home for the both of them. She had been quiet except when spoken to, something that would have been alarming to Rainy in the past—Sherry almost _never_ stopped talking. She only ever stops talking when she is _truly_ angry or unsettled.

In her bedroom, Rainy lets her hands drop to the bed, the novel falling to her chest. No sensory receptors went off when the sharp corner hit one of her ribs. That day, only a day ago on a Wednesday, was all still in her mind.

 _"Look, I don't know why you're so against a guy like me…"_

SILVER-GRAY HAIR

 _"I don't know how you put up with something so bothersome as Liam."_

CHERRY FLAVORED LIPS

All of it stil plays in her mind, trying to understand or grasp a probable motive. She can remember things clearly, rarely ever forgetting. She members it all, everything, including what she had done two weeks ago with that boxcutter—something she also hadn't meant to, but ration was to use fear.

Rainy turns over on her bed, feet falling to her two pillows.

She doesn't know why she put up with it either

From her bedroom, she can hear the murmur of conversation in another room. Her father has a naturally baritone voice that carries; Rainy can tell from her bedroom that he isn't too pleased with the subject on hand out there.

She adjusts herself atop her comforters.

She doesn't talk about her home life much to others—she didn't find a reason to talking about it. When she has, it's vague and she makes sure that whomever is asking doesn't want to know more by the time she finishes. Sherry doesn't even know much beyond general knowledge: that Rainy was once an honest and social kid, and that is why her mother is so worried; about her father's current career and her mother continues to struggle holding down a job.

She doesn't know that Rainy now keeps more secrets than she knows what to do with

 _"Now what if I just wanted to say hi?"_

Rainy looks to the window. The sky has grown dark. Her clock high on her wall reads 7:20 at night. She can hear her father's booming voice through the thin walls from perhaps the hallway leading to the living room.

She has a very difficult time trusting others, even in the past before she had been cursed. In fact, Rainy didn't even trust many in her own family—that is why she hadn't wanted to keep talking to that Pedro boy. Besides, why should she even trust someone who only seems to want to display his delinquent streak, and who obviously talks way too much for his own good?

 _"Why can't you just be nice?"_ his dark eyes had glared at her

Why did he insist on approaching her? Rainy can't fathom a reason why as she grabs for a pillow, watching her fingers press to the stitching. She has made a name for herself at school for being difficult to approach, purposely so that no one could find out her secret and be dragged down with her. She always gives smartass answers, has practiced having a disinterested look in the mirror, and she purposely wasn't very social, all for the sole purpose to not have anyone question her. Because this is her burden. This is her curse that is only her responsibility to carry, and _cure_ if the possibility ever presented itself. It only makes sense to; that is the only logical response to what had happened.

And yet she had told someone, a simple slip of the tongue that was meant as a threat. And now he knows everything.

 _'Why?!'_ she questions herself _now_.

She had no reason to tell Pedro in the first place and she doesn't even _know_ him—maybe she had said do because the fact that he doesn't have a highly favored status in the school society, and it isn't like ayone would believe a _geek_ who dies his hair _gray_ anyway? Maybe it was the fact of his appearance, and she took a sort of pity to him?

She doesn't know and it hadn't been the rational move to make. But Rainy is certain of one thing: that she _has_ to fix this. As soon as possible. She has to make sure that he isn't going to go and blab it to the entire school community—which she thinks he likely would do.

The sky is a deep indigo outside her window, she sees.

Normally around this time, her parents' voices would be heard from her bedroom, usually about something financial, sometimes about personal matters they would argue, whether it was her mother's carelessness or her father's absence. However, tonight there wasn't, though Rainy could faintly pick up miscellaneous sounds around the house: a blender, the television in the living room, the A/C kicking on...

To Rainy, her parents have always viewed her as their prize little girl, their daughter who earns high grades and special certificates from minimal tasks in preschool. She minds her manners and dresses up in cute bows and curly puff ponytails. She doesn't argue, and always open for friends. She's obedient, mindful, respectful. She's idealistically perfect. Of course, most that was in her early years and evaporated as soon as she entered middle school. Her parents sometimes reminisce about it, knowing that she's become more independent and introverted and outspoken.

Rainy is the polite child of a business worker and pothead ex-hippie, ironically. She was the obedient one that always did as she was told, who used to love being in the kitchen with her grandmother in the south. Rainy is the daughter whom they thought would grow up successful and marry wealthy and handsomely; she's the daughter they never suspected would feel numb inside, literally.

Probably stereotypical it seems, but despite, Rainy's parents _did_ truly care for her—and would ask about her day the many, many times she had been picked up from school, mostly when she was younger. Her parents continue to try to show their love even if they aren't always around as much.

But no one knows of the night she was changed—no one except that boy, and he only knew vague details.

 _That boy_.

She blinks.

That boy of silver hair and quick tongue. She blinks, remembering clearly, like a camera taking memories to remember forever.

*camera shutter*

The one who, all those years ago, stared at her for so long as if he was shocked or frozen or _amazed_.

Pedro

Peter

Pietro Maximoff

*camera shutter*

That boy of nibble feet and odd mannerisms. A weirdo, a social freak who inhales his food and insists on wearing only left gloves on his hands. He never gets along with most, allegedly, because of his temper or awkward social status. She isn't quite sure which.

*grey sneakers*

*camera shutter*

o

 _black pause scene_

Yes, Rainy thinks as she glares at the wall, she had definitely told her secret curse to the wrong person. If she could feel, she'd probably feel something like regret, maybe anger toward the boy from school, but in this late afternoon all she felt was literally _nothing_ and watches the ceiling fan spin.

Rainy picks up her book lying beside her. It's probably wiser to fill her mind with this rather than contemplating on the boy's motives she has no way of obscuring at the present moment. But the book isn't much better—a cheesy novel from the school's library about a rich girl wanting to run away with a muscular macho whom she is supposedly soulmates to, as well as a way to get out of an arranged marriage. The main female was bland and the trope overdone, and the guy she loved fit too much into the physically unrealistic dreamy Romeo mold. Rainy is glad, at least, that the macho guy added the drama, especially the parts where he enters unannounced and is so hellbent on getting the girl to marry him. The fictional man is clever, determined, and sneaky. It was like the two other main "villian" characters could never hear him when he slid into the room only until he was right behind them. He liked to talk too, like he could never—-

SILVER

Her grip slacks and the book falls. Rainy tries to connect the dots on how _could_ he come to mind?

Why does that boy keep coming to her mind? There's definitely something _outputting_ about him, something other than his low reputation. She replays that event when she threatened him over and over in her mind like she's looking for a slip-up in a recording.

 _"Why can't you just be nice?"_

That's what he had said last time, right? Something like that.

 _"I don't know why you're so against a guy like me…  
You really should watch yourself, sweetheart..."_

She isn't _against_ him—not personally, per se—except if you count the fact to keep his mouth quiet about her secret, than she has every right to be against him. But Rainy knows that there is just something _off_ by how she keeps thinking about it, about him. Maybe it's in the way he walks or converses or formulates sentences...

Besides, he had never done anything against _her_. So...

She convinces herself that must be it.

Rainy looks to her bedroom door hearing the knob turn. Her father sticks his head in and asks if she'd like to ride with him on a needed trip to the grocery store. Her mother is faded at the dinner table. Though Rainy knew her father and knew that he would most likely drive to about five other locations just for the hell of it before actually going to the store, she figured it a much needed distraction. A head of grey hair comes to mind again and she agrees before she could think more about it.

* * *

Marya Maximoff shuffles her large leather black purse higher on her shoulder, hurrying down the tile hall of her kids' high school, her footfalls a little heavier than intended even though she is quite irked and rushed. She had been called by the dean of Sherbrooke High School two days ago for an appointment, and currently her children are all at home, Wanda in charge of dinner again. Neither knew that she was off at their school.

Her foot taps impatiently as she waits for the young woman to inform the dean of her arrival. Marya glances at the clock on the desk, noticing she's been here for almost twenty-five minutes already. Her youngest daughter had already been picked up by the twins and she hadn't planned on leaving them alone so suddenly again. She's in a rush because she's been nonstop all day and this is just another bump in her formerly perfected weekly routine, and just wants to get through this with it as soon as possible.

When she's invited and greeted inside the dean's small office by last name, she calling him by his first name. They've been through this enough that they might as well be on name basis, she stated once. Marya wears a forced smile and sits with a heavy sigh. She already knows what this is for but allows the elder man tell anyway.

She's told that her son was given two days's worth of detention, a day assigned from two different teachers, one for tardiness and the other for conduct, or lack thereof in classwork.

Marya sighs, it unintentionally loud and spent. She apologizes, the dean noticing the hints of an accent.

"Pietro," the man slowly reads the name on the tab of the folder, "obviously is a good student. But his conduct..." He rolls his wrist, thinking of the right words. "It's not the best."

"Not the best?"

The dean sighs. "It's not very good. This is fourth time he has been called up to my office, the third detention received in the past three months. Mr. Knight, your son's History teacher, wrote reported that he is concerned that there might be issues with his home situation."

"Oh, I'm not sure what you mean by _home situation_...?" She forces a small smile that appears more tired than intended.

"Oh. I apologize. I meant a lack of an authority figure."

" _I am_ the authority figure," she states, sitting taller. Her small smile grows defensive and she doesn't bat an eye. Marya straightens her shirt and adjusts her overstuffed purse in her lap. There's a deep wrinkle across her breasts, and her mascara has smudged the tiniest bit under her eye. The dean can't deny that the woman must have a tiring job, though he already guesses this after the first two meetings they have had.

"Well...I meant lack of a _male_ authoritative figure." He watches realization and then offense cross her face, and hopes he hasn't done the latter. "I just think he needs a little more attention," the man tries to put it nicely, "a guiding hand for this crucial stage in his life. I mean," and he chuckles dryly, "he's been visiting my office since beginning high school."

"A male figure isn't the problem in my house." A hand scratches at her jeans. Her stress levels are rising, and she wishes she had a cigarette.

"Well...what about his father? I—-"

"Oh... Well, I'm sure we're much better off without _his father_ in the picture." She readjusts her leather wristwatch.

"Are you sure your son feels the same way?"

"Yes," she answers quickly. "I'm sure...I think so...I hope so..." Marya thinks for a moment, then blinks, taken aback as his indication hits her, and she passively aggressively counters, "I'm sorry, what does that have to do with this meeting?"

She's informed that Peter had been caught inside the teacher's lounge again and is believed to have caused an uproar that resulted in the school's front lawn being covered with toilet tissue—the teen claims that he hadn't with the last assumption, and didn't comment about the first. Marya's only response is to sigh. Not very long ago, two police officers had appeared at their front door asking for him.

She clasps her hands on her thighs, tells that she will have a talk with her son— _'again,'_ she thinks.

"If this continues, there might be dire consequences that will be taken. There have already been suggestions about sending him to a juvenile delinquent school—-"

Her hand comes down on the table of his desk _hard_ and he jumps. "He's _my_ son. No one tells me what they're going to do with him except _me_ , got it?" She points a finger at him, the one that has an emerald ring. "When I say I'll talk to him, _I'll_ talk to him and straighten him out." She slides her purse back up her shoulder, standing to make her way to the door. "But he _will_ be there for detention. I guarantee you."

When he hears Ms. Maximoff leaves the office, the dean slumps in his large chair and runs a hand over his bald head, feeling that he had begun to sweat.

* * *

For the past five minutes, Marya Maximoff has been pacing a oval in the carpet of Peter's basement bedroom, switching from pointing her finger, voice raised, to taking another sip of the brandy in her right hand. Now, the glass is empty, and she slams it on a side table beside the boy's couch, making him jump. Peter rubs his hands between his knees, chin lowered.

But she then turns on him. "And you!" The twins' news snap to her direction at the same time. "Where do you get this from?" she asks.

He begins again, "I told you, this _wasn't_ my _—_ -"

" _Stop_! Stop..." Her hand shoots up. "Don't. I don't want to _hear_ your voice right now." A fist bobs in the air. She tries to think about her words but she is so angry _—_ no, _frustrated_ with this, with repeating this situation month after month after month. "This is the second time this year, Pietro. The _second_ time. This year has barely even _started_. And I get home and there's a goddamn _police_ _car_ in my front yard!"

She's stomping in a circle in front of him. And he's biting his fingernails nervously.

The moment she caught sight of him after walking through the front door, he knew, he just _knew_. There always was that look she wore _—_ when something new appeared in the house, when the red and blue lights flash through their window at night _—_ it was that look of utter disappointment that seems reserved just for him.

Peter switches to bite on his other hand.

"What is going—through—your—head?" Her hands give a tiny shake with each word, and he watches her with wide eyes. "Are you that _thick-headed_? That you think you that you need attention this way? Look at your sister. She doesn't do things like this. She's a good kid. The deans and principals probably don't know her by first name." Marya's face is calming from a flushed pink it turned during her rant and as her voice escalated to where she is practically yelling in the house.

He opens his mouth but is stopped again, this time by the woman holding up a finger.

Marya breaths a sigh. "The police are gone. ...his better be the _last_ _time_ Pietro Django. The last. You got that?" She only says his full first and middle name when she's angered _—_ as of now. She bends, slowly picking up her small glass from the table.

He watches her wipe at her eyes with her hands, sniffing. They've had this talk before. When she would get emotional and explain to him why he shouldn't use his powers, why he needed to remain under the radar; to set a good example for his youngest sister, that the responsibility of the household didn't rely on him stealing, how she nor his sisters wanted to see him in the back of one of those police cruisers or in handcuffs.

The first few steps leading from the basement creak under her feet. "And...about that detention session...you're going to it. _Both_ of them. No exceptions this time."

" _But_ _—_ -!"

" _You're going_ , Pietro. That's _final_."


	11. 10b: detention i (Episode 5)

There are four main social groups throughout those enrolled at Sherbrooke High School.

Of course, they can be divided into several smaller classifications which make up the break down of dumpster divers and stoners and overachievers.

First, there is the bottom of the pyramid, made up of the most un-hip and socially unaccepted that there is no redeeming for them. They were "the untouchables," mainly huddled around trading cards and wearing thick-lens glasses and retainers that haven't straightened teeth properly _just yet_. They are the ones usually seen prying themselves out from a trash can by their ass, a jock's armrest, or the victim of a swirly or wedgie in the locker room.

Above were the "freaks" and "geeks," the second choices of who to throw in a dumpster if a nerd couldn't be found. This includes some burnouts and "psychos" and the _C-crew_ , the awkward and more socially awkward but those who aren't wearing suspenders and are more inept; they can be seen mingling with the second category but very never the first, and never the untouchables because they are already at a low level.

The second category of the social pyramid, above the nerds and freaks, is a wide mix called "the middle." They are the skaters, the "cool" stoners, and most who are of lower middle class families.

Then there is the top category which includes The Bees _—_ or _populars_ , which includes jocks, Honor Roll winners, and overachievers, the _well-liked_ , and gave free social passes to most of the stars on the school's sports teams cheerleaders. It is the highest of the social tower known for their power over the rest and influence; _bee_ given to a group of populars because their word will be heard everywhere, buzzing from classroom to classroom. In the school, The Bees' word is final. Everyone loves them and everyone wants to be them _—_

At least, that's what it is believed by Clarice Wilhelm.

She's the classic Hollywood teen movie type: blonde hair, blue eyes, long, thick eyelashes; milk white skin, slender figure, a guiltless smile with nimble, delicate hands, and a photogenic face. She's pretty, popular, _perfect—_ and she knows it. Though in reality, the girl would fall in love with her own reflection if it was a separate entity. And actually, it isn't uncommon for her to leave lip stains on the mirror while a current boyfriend is pressed flush behind her. She would smile at her reflection, at his breath against her neck and how _so infatuated with her_ he was.

The girl _thrives_ off of the energy of others. She prides herself on her authority.

Spoiled rotted, conniving, and selfish, Clarice is the Queen Bee of the school. Mckenzie Shabotz is the only who is second to her, her word taken almost as political as Clarice. Those a part of the C-crew and the school's acclaimed _geeks_ and _dweebs_ sit on the line of untouchables and "the middle." The nicer populars of the school, such as Sherry, were just as well-known as Clarice, though deriving from a different reputation. And according to Clarice, no one gets above her rule. That is also why she and Mckenzie don't take a kind liking to Sherry Addams. This is also why the two had plotted about her in the hall

"Pretty pathetic if you ask me." Mckenzie rubs on deodorant in an aisle of the girls locker room. The air is stuffy and smells of metal and a hint worn socks and of overpriced room spray. Their gym class had ended and were given a grace period before their next and final class for the day. "The _dumptruck_. Just another case of the geek trying to imitate the popular group and _failing miserably_." There is more spite in her voice than pity. "The oversized dipstick...has a brain like a mouse..." She mumbles, applying a layer of pink watermelon lip-gloss. She pops her lips. There isn't a hint of remorse on her face. Currently, she and two others from The Bee popular group are gossiping about a student who had been turned down by a football player and who then proceeded to have a mental breakdown that afternoon, as word had it. The student hadn't had a chance, they all agree. "You'd think someone like that would learn by now." She barks a laugh, and openly tells how stupid the decision had been, and that the public, harsh rejection of pointed fingers and whooping laughter was _worth it_.

Clarice turns around and asks for Mckenzie to tighten her bra. "Such a _sad_ _fuck_. Honestly, she might as well go and walk out in front of _traffic or something_ rather than return here. I mean, I would. She has no hope after all." Then, laughing, "that was _totally embarrassing!_ Hilarious!"

"Why?" a third girl asks, sitting on the bench. She's another blonde who too is a part of their clique.

Clarice sucks her teeth. "Because, like you said _—_ _pathetic_. ...And speaking of pathetic..." With a pop to her hip she turns to Mckenzie who is sliding her pleated skirt up her wide hips. "Heard you and that _dweeb_ got detention together. Sounds... _fun_." She laughs but the brunette frowns, despising the idea very much.

"It's not funny."

"You're right. It's _hilarious_." Clarice puts a hand on her own narrow hip, not embarrassed the slightest at exposing her small pink lace bra. "Hasn't that one been pining after you for some time now? It's kinda cute..."

"Yeah, him and every other guy in the school." Mckenzie knows that Clarice is being sarcastic, but still. "It's just pathetic and just... _ew_! He's so annoying and...ick, _odd_. Why some _weirdo_ had to grow a pair?" Mckenzie shutters in disgust. "I don't want him! This is _so_ _unfair_ ," she groans.

At the end of the aisle, Sherry silently dresses, doing her best to ignore the others, her back given to them. While both girls are considered a part of the popular crowd, Sherry acquired her title from a more friendly approach, with a nicer reputation to match that made everyone appreciate her more. Well, _almost_ everyone; everyone except the girls at the other end of the locker row.

Clarice glances over shoulder as she slides on her short skirt. "Then tell him to get lost, 'Kenzie. It shouldn't be hard. That, or sick your current boy-toy on him. The senior one. Maybe a third dumpster dive would knock some sense into that little roach."

"You don't think I've _tried_?"

Clarice steps over and takes Mckenzie by the hips. Both are in matching pleated skirts and topless, Mckenzie's the larger of the two. Clarice coos about the other having "too many guys after her," what a shame about it, and what a "poor soul" Mckenzie is, all in thick sarcasm, and she offers to fix it all for the brunette which is a coated threat behind puckered pink lips that could possibly strip Mckenzie of her high status. Clarice presses her hips to the other's, her fingertips pressing into the waistbands of Mckenzie's panties. This isn't the first time this has happened, and the third girl doesn't bat an eye, not even watching. Clarice lets go with a slight push to the other's hips, Mckenzie lightly bouncing off the lockers behind her. Then, catching Sherry not for the first time, Clarice calls out to the other about "overhearing their talk," asking Sherry to join in. Sherry doesn't reply, and Clarice's eyes narrow. She had purposely waited to ask the question, watching Sherry from the corner of her eye until Sherry removes her gym shirt.

"Hey, Sherry? What happened to your need to purge?" Clarice calls, pointing that the other who doesn't have as thin a body figure.

"Fuck you," Sherry responds, throwing her shirt over her head.

"Foul mouth. No guy is going to like a _pig_ , Sherry," Mckenzie smirks.

Clarice grins. Reaching to a locker left ajar beside hers, she pulls out a red watch. "Look. Someone left behind their Swatches." She saunters over to the strawberry blonde who is tugging her backpack up her shoulder. Clarice outstretches her arm with the watch, still wearing a small smile and still shirtless "I want you to have it, Sherry. Everyone knows you can't accessorize for shit. No offense." She lays a hand on the other's freckled shoulder, and it's swiped away.

Sherry sneers before walking out the locker room, the three Bees watching.

"Just your usual airhead bitch," the third remarks, not waiting until the door closes to speak.

* * *

" _Wha-what…?_ "

Meisha finds her feet won't move. Her bronze eyes precariously widen like a deer in headlights and no matter _how hard_ she tries, she knows there is _no_ help. She stands stock-still, staring up at the banner hung high in the hallway. SPIRIT WEEK it read in large painted print, and under it lists some activities that will be hosted, such as several contests, a kissing booth, and for all to "bring a date."

Bring a date.

Bring a _date_!

Meisha's vision spins. How in the _world_ is she supposed to have a _date—_ she couldn't even get her _stockings_ to stay up or keep her hair from frizzing by midday. If she couldn't keep _herself_ together, how _the heck_ is she supposed to get _a date_ ; an actual, living, _breathing_ _date_ _?!_

Students shoulder past her, as she's standing in the middle of the hall. It meant little to her, but the pressure...

 _Oh_ , the _pressure_!

If one didn't show up with some form of a date to Spirit Week _—_ the embarrassment that would ensue, the taunting and the finger pointing... Meisha couldn't go through with that. Not now, not again.

From the lockers in the hallways, Michelle White watches the redhead. She sees the way the girl with the long braid sways on her feet and wonders if Meisha is going to faint. The redhead is a weird girl, Michelle has heard, and is part of that geeks social class in school. Meisha is staring up at something _—_ the banner, Michelle suspects _—_ but couldn't fathom how something like a simple _banner_ would make one sway like she is off balance.

Michelle pushes the textbook she didn't need into her locker and turned in time to see a tall boy in a red and white jersey bump shoulders with the redhead, almost effortlessly pushing her over _—_ well, it was more of a side bump since the girl came up to mid neck for him. He was some friend of hers, as far as Michelle could tell from her distance, so he must be one in that clique _geeks_ too, Michelle conclude to herself as the two walked off together. But again, that was none of her concern _—_ her first priority is she only needs to pass her classes, and pass with a perfect attendance and record. So far she is meeting the requirement for at least one. And as Michelle turns to Janae Leonard at the locker beside her, Michelle asks for the notes from history class. Janae however, had seen where Michelle had been staring and points it out, asking, "why were you staring at the geek?"

Michelle comes up with a half asses excuse of "so what I was staring at her? It's not like I was going to go up and interrupt their little freak session, am I?"

Janae gives a look between one of knowing and one that said "I sure hope not," as her light brown ponytail sways and she pulls out the three pages of notes. The two girls walks together to the same classroom, ignoring the ignorant catcalls from a group of boys they pass. Michelle laughs as Janae flips her hair in response.

Both girls pull up chairs to a single desk before class starts, one chair to face each other. They have a little over five minutes until the late bell rings.

Janae smacks the gum in her mouth. "So _—_ " _smack_ , " _—_ who you hooking up with for Spirit Week?"

Spirit Week is exactly two months away, and it was the one school event that was given so much advertisement and concern that one would think it was an actual holiday _—_ other than school home football, that is _—_ and is why the one week always receives so much attention. It's the one day out of the year that students were encouraged to wear their school colors, advertise the school via merchandise or any other way imaginable. Classwork was held to a minimum _—_ if your teacher was generous, that is _—_ all the risks for being written up to the office was, for some reason, held to a minimum as well. Dress code was practically nonexistent and it wasn't too uncommon to see a group of students running through the hallway wearing beads and wristbands and face-paint, and then blend in perfect at the party later that day. They were already dressed for the party anyway.

It was also a sort of strange coincidence-like tradition that every yearly _something_ happened. For example, three years ago someone was proposed to _—_ two senior students. Two years ago, a student brought a gun to school, and another wimpish one finally stood up to his teacher and indirectly helped reveal his teacher a pedophile. Last year, a boy was found bleeding out on the floor in the girls restroom; and finally there is this year. There has always been a party going on for it every year, on or around Spirit Week, and that is what all the talk among students was mainly about. For the students, Spirit Week was just a cloak for the one of three large parties a school year. The other two being homecoming and the end of the year.

And the parties were great, apparently, even though no two stories about them were exactly alike. It was like a sort of unofficial tradition to hold them. It wouldn't be Spirit Week without some _party_ and wild event to follow. It was _preferred_ to dress similar to your partner _—_ your "date" _—_ whom you would be joined at the hip during the events after school and in-between classes.

"Who said I was going with anyone?" Michelle chirps.

Janae pauses, her gum in mid-chew, to shoot a look.

"You think I'm going to waste my time looking for some _guy_ to ask me out?" Michelle laughs.

"Haha, _yeah_ ," Janae answered sarcastically. " _Duh_. Like that _same guy_ you were harkin' over at the basketball game?"

Michelle's glare shows that she hadn't wished that to be repeated.

Janae picks up her pen and tossed it back and forth between her palms. "Ya know," she drawls like she does whenever she reveals some sort of fascinating canard bits, "that guy who was trying to talk to you near the lockers..." Her tongue pokes in the inside of her cheek before rolling across her bottom lip.

"There were, like, _three_ of them, Janae." Michelle pulls out her notebook and textbook for class.

"Well that _one_ that was on the _right_."

"I think it was Henry... _something_ , wasn't it?"

"Yeah I think so. No one can pronounce his last name anyway. _So_ I now know who you're eyeing down. _Anyways_ , I heard from Sandra and Nicki that _he likes you_ ~! And is going to ask you to partner with him for Spirit Week." She spoke the last part quickly hoping the other wouldn't catch.

"…Why would you tell me that!?" Michelle squeals, giving Janae a playful push on the shoulder. Her notebook begins filling up by her pen as she talks.

"Because he _likes you_!" the other coos.

Michelle reaches over and takes Janae's pen when hers dries out so she could quickly finish her homework before class. "Well I _don't_."

"Hey!" Janae snatchs back the pen with Michelle is writing mid-sentence. "You can't just snatch my pen like that!"

"That wasn't snatching," Michelle corrects calmly. " _This_ is snatching." She returns to finishing her sentence, ignoring her friend's glare.

And Janae snatches it back. It goes back and forth with each's turn to speak.

" _Hey,_ just let me finish this."

"Nope. Not until you answer to _Henry-something_ about going."

"Stop playin' around," Michelle laughs.

 _Snatch. Snatch._

"You know I gotta finish this homework, Janae!"

 _Snatch._

By this time, the two were standing over the desk, giggling, clearly and quite literally tugging over the writing pen. Each tug is worse than the last with darting arms to tickle. It becomes bad enough that when the bell rings for class both girls jump. The pen flies across the room, bouncing off the covered head of a girl in a red jacket seated near the window.

"Oh shit!" Janae hisses.

The girl doesn't move or speak out about the pen but she _does_ notice the swirl of red-violet around her own hands on its impact. The pen lands on the floor beside her chair.

"I'm so sorry!" Janae hurries over, hoping she hadn't started a fight.

The girl in the red hooded jacket merely bends to retrieve her pen, and silently hand it back without looking at her or removing her hood. Her movements are slow and careful, and she knows Janae is staring. Everyone always stares. That's why she keeps the hood on.

Janae slowly takes it. But she isn't given time to ask _—_ not like she would have meant it anyway _—_ because the rush of students then flood in for the class. Janae turns hearing her name called by a trio in the doorway who knew her. She quickly left, trying to shake off that sudden eerie hunch brought on by Wanda. Michelle calls that she'd return Janae's pen after class, waving it in the air.

Wanda doesn't look up from under her hood even when the teacher walks in seven minutes after the bell rings. Her paper and pencil are already out and ready. No matter how uncomfortable she is here, she is going to pass her classes. Her grades have started dropping and she is determined to bring them back up.

She closes her eyes and takes a slow, deep breath, trying to will her anxiety, and therefore her powers too, down. She didn't want _—_ didn't need _—_ anything crazy to happen today. So she looks ahead and does her best to pay attention when the teacher begins writing on the chalkboard. She focuses all her attention solely on the burly man in the too-tight button-down and bow-tie at the head of the classroom. But she did notice the brunette when she first sat down in the front, the girl with brown hair that changed to a dark blonde at the tips around her shoulders. The brunette isn't wearing the usual tie-dye and denim. The adult-sized dull green army jacket, probably her father's, is draped over her shoulders instead, and it isn't any less out of place.

Wanda scrunches her nose once but didn't pay much mind to the girl seated diagonal to her _—_ she couldn't, she reminds herself, her grades in jeopardy. So Wanda simply shakes her head and continues copying down notes the teacher writes for the upcoming quiz.

The girl beside Wanda is dressed differently on purpose, at least that's why she "borrowed" her father's old jacket. It's not like he would notice anyway _—_ he rarely wore the thing. But Rainy doesn't talk to anyone today, and when she does, it isn't much. She never does much anyway. But today she has an agenda _—_ for _once_ she ssn't going with the flow of things like she has every other three hundred and sixty four days of the year. She is going to set things straight later that day, lay down a few ground laws, as her mother would say. She made note of the time and class schedules for today, of when most students would have left campus and of what teachers left the latest, and asks her mathematics professor who is in charge of after-school detention.

By now, one could probably considered Rainy skilled in stalking in and out the school undetected. Especially after all the practice she's had with Sherry, Liam, Skeeter, and numerous others.

* * *

Detention starts an hour after the final bell rings, when the campus clears and the seniors drive off in hoots to chase after poor freshmen students. It's held somewhere in the back of the school campus, in a room with two windows and cramped space.

"There will be no talking, no communicating of any kind. No eating, no sleeping or "resting your eyes." That means no Morse code _—_ or _whatever_ it is you kids do with your hands." The strained man in the lime green shirt waves his hands wildly.

His orders are met with sarcasm. "You mean _sign language_ , sir?"

Peter and several others snicker.

Mr. Newell snaps at the gray-haired one who answers crossly with a _"whatever."_ The man continues. "We are going to write an essay of a thousand words or however much it takes you to fill up a page, front and back. _An essay_ , so not a single word repeated over and over, and no skipping lines. That's the only way any of you get to leave detention this afternoon. And if you fail to do so, I'll be seeing you next Thursday after school."

A collection of groans sound in objection.

Mr. Newell cuts them off with a mocking sound of his own. "Yeah, well _deal with it_!"

"Looks like Mr. Newell is still on his _period_ today," Peter leans his head back, not making much attempt to whisper to the girl behind him.

She stifles a smile.

" _Can_ it, wise guy. Or I'll be seeing _you_ again next week."

Peter sneers back.

A skinny boy in the front raises his hand. He is straight-A student who isn't very talkative and very awkward, and none knew much of him.

" _What now_ , Hughes?" Mr. Newell whines, setting his hands on his hips.

"Um, I have to leave at around five. You see, I have an appointment, and my mom's going to be here for my _—_ -"

Everyone is squinting their eyes in confusion way before Newell stops him off with a "can it, primadonna." Now, Newell starts passing out a page of paper to each student. "No music, _no_ _sleeping_ ," he pulls out the chair Peter has propped his feet over.

The mutant gives the man an evil glare and rests his feet on his desk instead.

Two desks over, Mckenzie had looked over as Newell passed by, and catches eyes with Peter. The mutant winks at her. Mckenzie grimaces, rolls her eyes. He hisses for her attention, patting a seat beside him. She points a finger to her mouth, imitating a gag.

"Maybe, you all will learn from your peers. Maybe, just a _miracle_ might happen and common sense would strike in you young folks' premature brains instead of thinking it's _fun_ to play hooky or break the windows in a classroom, or hang the defenseless by their _underwear_." He points at a student who's crime matches as he exposes them all.

Peter doesn't like this teacher very much, and the collection of times he has ran into Newell have ended by the adult waving a fist or face turning a shade of red. So, when it came to his turn for exposure, the corner of Newell's lip pulls back in a silent snarl. One girl flips him off and is assigned a second detention session next week.

Newell returns to the front of the room. His arm flicks and he glances from his watch to the clock far in the back. "The time now is 3:12 in the afternoon. You all have approximately _four hours_ to write your essays."

Peter raises his hand. He is seated in the middle of the room. He sighes.

" _What_ Maximoff?"

"I don't have a pencil, Mr. Newell." He pouts purposely. It's in a mocking manner. "Unless you accept _alternate methods_ of writing it…say _—_ -"

" _Alright_!" Newell squints, passing out sharpened pencils. He cuts the fast talker off before Peter could come up with any more ridiculous excuses to waste time or for a few laughs.

"You know I can come back later and do it. All I need is _—_ -" He stops when Newell slams his No. 2 on the desk making the young mutant jump.

"…Anything _else_ , _Maximoff_ ," Newell speaks between his teeth.

The boy thinks for a split second. "Yeah. Rod Stewart wants his closet back."

 **. . .**  
 **. . .**

"So what are you in here for?" Hughes lolls his head over.

There were given a fifteen minute recess which began two minutes ago and the girl sitting at Hughes' side just stares.

Peter rolls his eyes, taking a swig from the soda can bought from a nearby dispenser.

"Did you really bust a hole in the window of that west wing science lab?" Hughes turns to the girl this time, despite her looking _very_ uninterested.

She didn't given him a second thought, picking under her onyx painted nails that matched her dark clothes and eyeliner. "Yeah. So?"

"So _...why_?"

" _Because that moldy bastard pissed me off_!" her voice grows with each word. She is referring to a science teacher, one of the old, almost-ready-to-retire ones. " _Do you want to see me pissed off_?!"

Peter wears a judging quirk of his brow. "Cool, Count Drama."

"So, why are _you_ here?" A girl in a pink shirt speaks up. She wasn't seated with the trio, appearing to be of a more popular clique, but she had wanted to get in on the conversation. She's sitting near Mckenzie who appears to be making an appointed notion to distance herself. Mckenzie rubs the nape of her neck when the one in pink calls. Peter had gone over and tried to flirt with her, but Mckenzie had gotten up and changed seats. Peter couldn't deny the small hole in his gut that had formed, but of course he laughed it off instead.

"Why's that any of your concern?" Peter squints.

"Well because everyone is telling theirs. Why not you too?"

"You don't need to know my business, pinkie pie."

The girl is wearing white shoes with pink designs, and carrying a muted pink purse and jelly bracelets. The only thing not pink is her jean skirt and her hair. Pinkie Pie doesn't favor Peter's answer but he couldn't care less. He's bored, antsy, and hungry. He wants to be here no less than the others and he could have gone across town and got a snack _by now_ and been back before recess was over. But he _couldn't_ because he isn't _supposed_ to let normal people see his powers. That's what Marya has always scolded, and with good reason.

The students are called back inside then and worked on their essays for forty-five more minutes until one announces their hunger. And after turning the option over, Newell releases two students to venture to the cafeteria and bring back cartons of milk and anything else edible. To get them out of his hair, he sent Peter and the girl in black that was beginning to creep him out.

The walk is awkward, and only sounds are the traction of their shoes against the linoleum tile. Peter crosses his arms and the girl shuffles behind him. Her hair is in her face and she wears several silver rings on her thick knuckles. The classrooms are dark inside and Peter stares into a random windows as they pass. The girl in black is obviously the quiet type and he wonders if he should start a conversation. Should he? Or should he keep quiet?

"So, what's-your-name? You a part of that goth group?" He means the unofficial metal music loving mock-society student group. He pauses to let her catch up and when she does, she as an annoyed, almost sad turn of her mouth.

She shakes her head. "You're so pathetic." And then she takes the lead.

Peter remains still, falling back, mumbling, "sorry I asked."

He's looking down so he doesn't initially notice the third figure creeping up beside him until he feels a tug at his side and jumps about three inches in the air only to see Rainy standing there, the usual blank yet slightly judging look in her eyes. Peter doesn't know if he is relieved to see her and provide a distraction and company than with Count Drama, or if he should be worried.

He lets his raised arms slap to his sides. "What do you want?"

"That would have been an interesting picture, seeing you squealing like a tiny girl…" she muses. "Why didn't you scream louder?"

Peter shoves his hands back in the pockets of his worn jeans, ignoring that she is now following. "I don't have time for this right now." He turned back down the hall, but he never makes it back beside Count Drama. Because in one fluid motion, Rainy has him by the collar of his jacket and is pushing open the door to a classroom.

He gags, whirls around with an angry glare of shock. " _Do they ever lock these doors_?" His back hits a wall. Rainy covers his mouth, though he protests. She hisses that she's listening for the girl out in the hallway who seems to have stopped and notices her partner's disappearance. When Count Drama's footsteps fade, Rainy takes her hand from his mouth and releases her death grip on the front of his jacket that had been squeezing his throat. Peter wheezes back to life.

"What the absolute fu _—-_ " He breaths. "You…! What do _you_ want?"

Her eyes bare at him. She blinks once, still a placid look on her face. "Answers. Final reconciling. Whatever it is you would call it." She doesn't stand back. Her grip tightens again around his collar. "Why do you keep following me?"

A gray brow arches. "Why am _I_ following _you_ …?"

"I won't repeat myself even if you are that slow."

Peter throws his hands up, slowly backing off from the wall, pushing her with him. "Well this is certainly a turn of events." He takes in her large jacket, black tank top and denim bell-bottoms underneath. "What can I do for you, your evilness?" It's spoken in a sneer.

"I clearly told you to not contact me and you continue to do so. You continue to play a fool and you obviously are trying to meddle and wonder into my social and personal life."

Peter watches her finally take a step back and he holds in a smirk, listening.

"So, I've come with a final proposal."

His brows rise. "Oh really?"

"Is it money—is that what you want?"

He mouths a _wow_. "Who said I wanted money?" Though it didn't sound like a _bad_ idea...

"Isn't that what you geeks want—popularity? Recognition? Money will get it for you. If you walk in with a couple hundreds—if you want that, I can get it for you."

"…Now I _was_ going to say something nice like I just want your company, but now I'm regretting it." Peter doesn't expect that answer and doesn't earn one either. "But who said I wanted _money_?" He holds his hands behind his back, beginning to circle her. "What if I just wanted to ruin your life?" The corners of his lips tug upward.

She doesn't break her stare, her expression just as hard. "Good luck trying."

A pause pass between them. He stops circling her, not knowing what to say to that. Rainy just stands there with feet planted apart and a slight frown to her lips. He glances from her shoes back to her eyes. The slight smirk returns to his lips.

"This is getting nowhere," she tells. "Are you really this slow or are you just being difficult for attention? What classes are you taking? Someone like you must certainly be in—what?—intermediate classes? You're one of those C crew, aren't you?" Not all were spoken to be questions.

"You're being exceptionally cruel today." He eyes her questionably. "What's your deal?"

"Like I said: leave me alone."

"Then you wouldn't have come here if you wanted to leave me alone." He smiles, stepping closer, wondering if he _could_ possibly piss her off. "You just can't stay away from me, can you sweetheart?"

Rainy's face doesn't show a flicker of emotion.

"You like me, don't you—-"

"Don't be preposterous."

"I'm being absolutely proper!"

Her bright eyes flicker as she thought of another insult in that next split moment. "…You are completely hopeless—-"

"Oh, _am I_? Well you know how people like _me_ are then, don't you—-?"

"That you are a slacker." She tells blankly, and his neck rears backward and his mouth shuts. "You try to make up for that with your failing show of confidence and boasts. You have a big head. Also, you have no care for authority or respect for others and you wouldn't be able to tell a right answer if it hit you in the face."

He just stares, biting his lip. Peter shuffles, his hands that were still in his pockets twitch, and he glances behind him. "Are you talking to me or looking in the mirror?" His thumb jabs in the direction of the mirror hanging on the wall that neither noticed before. "Cause, you know, _you said_ you wouldn't be able to feel if someone punched you—-have you ever been punched?" His eyes squint as he asks the last bit quickly.

And if Rainy could get angry, she would have felt it at that comment. Instead, her eyes that always appear steely and hostile, stare at him in a way she hopes is menacing, flickering back and forth as she thinks and observes. "You're running in circles... And I hadn't imagined it would be this hard to get simple things like privacy across to someone like you. But I suppose I should have considered that variable."

She crosses the room to the door, leaving him.

"Where're you going?"

Rainy ignores him. He's being over-dramatic, she knows.

"Aren't you going to help me?"

"What could I possibly help you with?"

He thinks she sounds like she is growing angry but it's likely a trick of his ears. Peter perks up instead. "Like you said: I'm terrible in classes. Aren't you going to tutor me? I mean, with all that boasting about wow _oh so much more brilliant you are_."

Rainy doesn't look back. "Why would I encourage the problem? Someone like you would never take this seriously. "

Pause. "Because you don't have any feelings. You wouldn't mind, plus, it's a way to pass time since that's what someone with a boring life does anyway, right?"

Rainy looks across the room at him, pauses, then, "no."

"Aww, c'mon…!" When she opens the classroom door to leave without an answer, he blurts: "if you don't, then I'm going to have to tell that girl you hang around all about your _little secret_ and to maybe _"trip"_ and spill some hot water on you or something as a finishing act to prove it!"

Rainy would have rolled her eyes at that. "You're assuming that I haven't practiced such reactions for such situations." She would have added a chuckle if it came bubbling out.

"Yeah but not if it's _boiling_." He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. " _Plus_ , I'd suppose you'd want your necklace back...?"

A locket on a thin golden chain hangs from his fingers, he holds out.

She doesn't know how or when exactly he stole it, but when she glances down, the charm is no longer around her neck.

She knows she should be growing angry...

"Am I right?"

She thinks for a minute. "Are you serious?"

"You're not the only one who can blackmail. ...Oh look! It's a little picture of little—-"

"Don't!" She hopes her screech sounded threatening.


	12. 10c: intermission i (Episode 5)

_**A/N: The first half of this in-between chapter is more about Meisha and Ronny, the OCs. The second half focuses on Wanda and Clarice**_

* * *

"Hold these will you?" The tall, tan woman hands the blinds to the shorter version of herself—her daughter—this version having long red hair. Mrs. Babinski left work earlier that day on a faulty appointment excuse yet seems indifferent about it when asked, holding herself with confidence and very professional that she hasn't turned off yet. Her light brown, curly hair is held up in an afro-like fashion.

Meisha takes the blinds from her mother without objection. She then watches her mother look over her shoulders before climbing onto the lowest shelf and reach for a particularly large monkey wrench high on a hook. She then hopes down, straightens her blazer and orders her daughter to keep up to the next aisle.

They're on an errand list trip to Home Depot.

And it's been two weeks since Meisha's hint of an… _episode_ , if you'd call it, at the Maximoff's house, and a day since she noticed the large banner hanging in the school's hallway. She's been more silent since seeing it.

At an aisle for lightbulbs, Meisha's mother takes the tools and blinds from her daughter to carry.

They are here on an errand. Earlier that weekend morning, Meisha's mother found her daughter lounging around in her bedroom, arms sprawled across the window seal and sighing heavily. Her mother had watched Meisha for some time, admiring how beautiful her daughter is (she came up and cooed) and wishing she saw that. Then urged her daughter to join her on the errand trip. Plus, Meisha's father needs new tools, and a few more materials to finish remodeling the bathroom, and new blinds in the kitchen.

Her father is a contractor, her mother a social worker.

Mother and daughter travel to pick up various screws and nails and a one sledgehammer. And through it all, Meisha keeps silent, giving her mother short and hushed responses and answers to questions. Her daughter is looking down a lot again, Mrs. Babinski notes.

Coming to the cash register, she asks Meisha to take the items from her arms and place them on the conveyer belt while her mother rushed to get a box of cold medicine she forgot to shop for and before it is their turn to pay. Meisha obliged without conflict—of course—or looking the cashier in the eye. She knows that he must be looking at how abnormal her hair is for someone with tan skin like hers, about how long it is, and she looks away. She repeatedly runs her hands down a random lock over her shoulder. The cashier is, instead, looking everywhere but at the girl.

When Meisha's mother comes rushing back and huffing, she quickly hands the cashier her debit card and apologizes for her heels clicking so loudly across the tile. And he waves it off, tells that it is no big deal. Meisha notices her mother is rubbing her under bicep; the woman just laughs it off.

The cashier presses a few buttons and a receipt is printed. "That'll be forty-seven, thirty-eight. ...Would you like a bag for this, ma'am?"

Meisha's mother gives a large smile and thanks the young man for the offer. She always smiles, is always happy, always wanting to fill the atmosphere with positivity; Meisha can't remember a time when her mother isn't. Mrs. Babinski catches the turn of her daughter's head to catch the doors to the store swing open, a girl in a shiny aqua green dress and jelly shoes walking inside. The new customer is walking with two others whom are obviously much older and likely the drivers.

Mrs. Babinski waits until they grab the purchases, and walking past the jelly-shoes-girl, and until they are outside to speak to Meisha.

"That's pretty what she's wearing, no?" She shields her eyes from the glaring sun, the wind blowing as they walked back to the car. The air is still chilly, the breeze and periodic cold fronts the last remnants of the previous winter. The woman pulls the top of her jacket closed, the wind billowing her dress shirt.

Meisha knew her mother had seen the girl, and Meisha herself watching the customer enter through. She didn't respond to her mother right away, thinking over her answer. "No." And she shrugs. The car doors are unlocked and both slide inside the car. "It's alright," she then admits, closing the passenger door.

The purchases sit on the backseat. Some are needed for her father and the ones her mother needed had been separated into another grocery bag.

The car revs. Her mother drives, the car leaving the parking lot. She doesn't have long nails, and keeps them rather short because their soft and break off easily, Mrs. Babinski tells; Meisha has longer and stronger nails than her mother.

"Don't lie to me," Mrs. Babinski smiles, pulling out into the road. "You think it's pretty, don't you? What that girl had on. Would you like something like that?"

Meisha's arms are folded, refusing to admit it. She doesn't—hasn't liked anything like that, because it's girly and the shirt too tight for her liking, even _slightly_. And _jelly shoes_?! Only _valley girls_ wore clothing similar like that!

Meisha shrugs instead.

Since her mother is focused on the road ahead, she doesn't catch her daughter's gesture. "Why don't you try to wear stuff like that? That girl was so pretty! And cute!" She stole a glance at her daughter who is looking straight ahead. "Would you wear a dress like that if I bought one for you?"

Meisha shrugs again. "It's alright, I guess…"

"Ok, so I'll buy you a pretty dress and you'll have to wear it."

Meisha's head snaps to her left. "Mom!"

" _What_?!"

"I—-! I didn't say...!"

"What? You didn't say _no_..."

Her mother knows that Meisha isn't very fond of dresses and skirts. She's never really been, opting for denim overalls and high-waisted pants ever since she could make her own decisions. Skirts left her feeling too _open_ and exposed. Of course, she has told her mother this in the past, but Mr. Babinski insists that her daughter should "dress more ladylike" and "should get comfortable wearing them because she's going to have to in the business world." Meisha always huffs at it and tries to change the subject when she knows her mother is going to win the argument.

"So.. you wouldn't wear it to, like, a dance or something?" Mrs. Babinski thinks for a moment. " _Is_ there a dance or event coming up?"

Meisha turns to the passenger window. "No," she speaks softly. But she's lying, and her mother knows it.

"I _did_ hear that there was something coming up in a few weeks at your school..."

Meisha's eyes widen and she starts mouthing "no, no, no..." Good thing her mother isn't paying attention to her or she'd see in the reflection of the window that her daughter is stressing.

"Why don't you go?" her mother finishes, then thinks. "…Do you _want_ to go?"

"Because."

They came to a red light and her mother gave her a look.

"Because it's stupid and I don't wanna go."

Th ligt remains red. Her mother's stare continues.

Meisha purses her lips.

"Mom," Meisha doesn't look up, "I don't _want_ to go," she lies.

"Well why not? I'd think you'd have a lot of fun." The light turns green and the engine revs.

 _Because it's too much pressure... To find a date... To avoid being laughed at just for being there..._

PRESSURE

"Because it's a waste of time with stupid people and I don't want to go."

"I think your friends would like to go," her mother insists.

"No, they wouldn't."

 _They weren't allowed to go either,_  
 _not allowed socially.  
_ _Freaks and geeks and other outcasts were unofficially the automatically uninvited to these type of events._

PRESSURE

 _PRESSURE_

"Well how do _you_ know that? Have you even asked them."

"I just _know_."

Her mother presses on the car horn wen a truck being to veer too close, and it adding noise to the already growing tension in their small car.

"Meisha, I think you should go."

A semi truck honks as it pass in the left lane.

"That dress was pretty. I think you should go."

"I don't want to go to some stupid party, mom! It's not something for me to go to." Her bangs begin swaying as if there is a breeze in the car despite all the windows being closed.

"What do you mean? Of course you can go to that if you want to." Mrs. Babinski steals a glance over her shoulder and switches on the car turning signals. "We should go get you a dress." It's a finalization, no more a suggestion.

Meisha clenches her hands. " _No_..."

"Why not? It's gonna be fun! Look, we can get you a nice dress, get your hair done all pretty, and get you some makeup. I promise you'll love it! You can go with your guy friends and then you can maybe make some girl friends while you're there!"

" _Because I can't go!_ " Meisha's snaps suddenly, her bangs lifting and end of her braid, that had been resting in her lap, snapped forward like a whip, putting a tiny scratch across the windshield.

The sudden snap and flash of orange hair out of the corner of her eye frightens Meisha's mother and the car screeches on the breaks. Vehicles behind honk in alarm. Their small car is quickly put back in drive.

" _My god, Meisha!_ "

 _"I told you I didn't want to go "_

Her mother grabs at her own chest, heart racing. Meisha doesn't see and is turned away and to the passenger window.

It takes Meisha's mother sometime to recollect her bearings and the car ride home is much more quiet. Though she loves her daughter, there is indisputable fact that her daughter is a mutant. A mutant—and labeled by many, stronger, and more powerful, _dangerous_ type of human being. And ever since Meisha was small, her mother had been reminded. Even though she loves her daughter very much, there is still a private, very deep part inside her that is somewhat against her daughter's mutation.

Meisha breaths an "I'm sorry."

Her mother tells that it is all fine, but her knuckles are tighter around the steering wheel.

 **. . .  
** **. . .**

Ronny sighs again. His neck cranes backwards; his skin is pale and cold. The alarm clock behind his head reads that it is midday. The ceiling fan turns on medium speed, but it doesn't help or is much of a bother. The blankets are pulled up to his chin. He doesn't move, doesn't shiver, and just remains stone still.

He's in his bedroom, action figures and school books and lava lamps decorating his shelves and desk. The curtains are drawn. The A/C controls is having on the kitchen wall nearby the corded telephone.

Ronny rolls his eyes back toward the ceiling. He had hoped that the sounds of Mazzy Star playing from his tape player on his dresser would bring some feeling of solitude and tranquility, but it seems that his parents' have traveled to the hallway so now he can hear their arguing as if they are right outside his bedroom. They are loud enough that they might as well be right outside his door. Ans this time, Ronny can care less what their arguing is about.

He blinks.

His mother calls out _some_ complaint about his father. She nags about his lack of responsibility and not being family-oriented.

His father spits some kind of counter comeback.

Ronny's ceiling fan spins. It looks dusty. He thinks he should probably clean it.

Feet and heels stomp down the hall—now his parents are literally near his bedroom door. But instead, they climb the stairs and and Ronny can picture his mother shaking her hands near her head like she does when she gets upset, and then pointing at the ground to help emphasis her argument. His father would be pointing with an open hand, neck veins popping, probably in his wife-beater tank top or camouflage army jacket.

CAMOUFLAGE

Ronny is apart of the only group of mutants in his school, probably. Well, as far as he knows they are the only ones: a boy who couldn't be caught on camera, a girl who can change her hair into the same sharpness as knives... Ronny had been so relieved he had found the two he calls friends, no matter how much of an asshole one of them is at times.

Ronny blinks. There's some sudden stomping upstairs and Ronny shivers from shock, and then snuggles more under his three blankets.

Camouflage...

He's been getting cold a lot recently. He looks in the direction of his mirror that hangs on the back of his bedroom door. That mirror has saved him multiple times from being found out, of his ability being discovered, saving him more times than he can possibly think of. His room is one of few spaces he feels relieved and safe.

Camouflage... He pulls the blankets down to make sure he can still see his own skin. Lately, he's been cold a lot, asking to turn up the heat even when his mother states the inside temperature is 70 degrees Fahrenheit.

"Would you rather it be that humid 80 outside?" she would ask.

Yes, he would, but he'd never say that.

The only time he feels additional warmth is out in the sunlight, oddly enough.

Ronny sniffs, feeling his nose beginning to run from the chilling 75 degrees it is in the house, thanks to his mother finally reducing the chill a few degrees. She had probably came in when he had been asleep and drawn his curtains too. And if he would muster himself enough, Ronny would open them back up to let the sunlight in and turn off that blasted fan too.

Because he is _freezing_.

Earlier, Peter had called for Ronny to accompany him to an arcade center, but Ronny hadn't felt like pleading as an accessory in a robbery again. He knows that the speedster is probably trying to stealing that ping pong game he's been having his eyes on for months now. So Ronny had refused to leave his home after several pleads from the other over the telephone, his excuse being that he's in bed "sick." Even when the call had suddenly ended and there was soon a rapid tapping at his window, Ronny answers a loud "NO!" from his bed, still. In the end, Peter had probably dragged poor Meisha with him instead.

Ronny sniffs, his left nostril beginning to run again. He should probably pull back the curtains soon before it is dark outside and his room pledged into a chilling temperature even longer. His action figures could use a little dusting too anyways. And he wants new socks. And he notes that he might have one too many lava lamps.

Outside his room, his parents had migrated to their bedroom across the hall and the yelling seems to have dwindled down several decibels.

Other than both Ronny's parents as well as himself, the Di Gallo house is otherwise empty. Their landlord doesn't allow pets, so Ronny had to get rid of his dog when he was younger, before they moved in. He had cried a lot that day, he remembers. His father ridicules him for it when it's brought up during family events. The walls here aren't allowed to be repainted or redesigned, so there is a faint flowery pattern that only his mother likes that covers the living room and guest bathroom.

His mother—she's a nice woman, one who Ronny feels he's grown even more closer to since his mutation appeared, ironically. Ronny's mother is one of _those_ mothers who is all about the hospitality to guests and who smiles and declares herself a hugger. She's a nice woman, perhaps even more radiant and bubbly in her earlier years. Her favorite milkshake is strawberry and she has a pair of cherry red heels she likes to wear—to work, to the grocery store, to the mall—until her feet begin to hurt.

To Ronny, his parents seem like two completely opposites of each other—opposites attract, he used to think—and in the back of his mind, privately and to himself, sometimes he wonders just _how_ they became a couple and how they have remained together after these years.

And how could they have a mutant son?!

HUMAN ≠ MUTANT

Because humans do not equal mutants. They never do.

Ronny is probably—no, _likely_ the only one in his family who has mutated, and frankly, that thought scares him.

...Well, there is Uncle Frank whom the family never talks about... But _who knows_.

Still, it scared him. It scares Ronny a lot.

But in a way, he's thankful for his teenage years—given that is the excuse his parents are convinced on about why he is always in his room and would rather be out with friends than family. Ronny has managed to have them both conditioned to— _hopefully_ —not ask many questions. Because Ronny is a good boy, and would never do anything bad or illegal. He'd never _man up_ , according to his father, to take a drag of a cigarette or to disrespect a lady, to the relief of his mother. Ronny is a good kid who holds his tongue too much and who is a bit too much of a wussy, also according to his father.

 _No one knows of the tantrum he threw the first time he found out his mutation_  
 _Blaming the thumping and holler and emerging with tears on him getting caught in his sheets,_  
stepping on a tack,  
 _and then having a mess of a fall_

Yes, Ronny is very grateful for his teenage years because he is feeling quite a bit moody. Maybe that is why his body temperature is—probably?—lowering, he theorizes.

The teen rolls his sleeve back. Maybe puberty causes lots of rashes too, he hypothesizes. They do say your body goes through many changes, a few occurring later with more stages than others. Maybe puberty is what causes the rash on his inner lower arm. It's just weird that it's shaped in a sort of repeating circular pattern, and the more he looks at it, the more it kind of begins resembling an imprint rather than a bad trash.

It's just weird that rashes can have patterns. More specifically, one that has a slight resemblance to scales.

* * *

Wanda always knew she was different. From the time she accidentally sent a sizzling pan flying across the room to when they were driven out of Transia, their own country, she knew _what_ she was but didn't have a word for it until now.

 _Mutant_

That's what people like her are called; that's what she is: different. A mistake. An abomination. The next step in evolution—this knowledge and term won't come until years later, however.

Still, Wanda always _knew_ that there was just something… _wrong_ with her ever since she accidentally set a camp on fire. And even through the many times her aunt Marya would tell her that there wasn't anything bad about her, still Wanda suspects. Because there is just _something_ that had started a _smidge_ of confidence and arrogance in her over the fact that she can do things that others cannot. But along with that comes the threats, the risks, the _secrets_ that she's had to keep since arriving to America and since gaining her abilities.

First, it started with her. Then this mutant mess just _had_ to include her brother.

When Peter gained his ability of super speed, that was an entire game changer. In the beginning, Wanda had thought that _maybe_ she'd be the only one with all powers, or, she kind of hoped so—she didn't know why. But in all honesty, she was glad she wasn't alone in this situation; that now, at least her brother knew and could understand her struggle. They'd been through so much: from traveling, being literally ran out of their home town, to starting completely over in an entirely new country, and now high school. One could say that Wanda and Peter would have so much in common—being twins and all—but oh, what an assumption that was. The Maximoff twins knew each other insides and out, could practically read each other's minds using even vague facial expressions, and have a very close bond, but in no way are they the same.

Not entirely.

It's in little ways—Peter likes nuts on his ice-cream cones; Wanda likes caramel syrup, which he loathed on ice-cream. Their favorite colors are on opposite ends of the color spectrum. Wanda is studious while her brother can care less about grades, always restless, always needing to move so he barely sits long enough at a desk. Wanda is very careful and somewhat the family peacekeeper; him, not so much. Also, not to mention their differences in sex.

 _Two sides of the same coin._ That's what Marya has always said about them, always calls them. The two _are_ completely different, but fit together well.

 _Marya fell in love with the twins since the day she saw them swaddled in cloth_

Personally, Wanda can't understand it. But like almost everything her aunt says, Wanda just lets it roll off her shoulders as some wise phrase she'll understand when she's older, and nodding that she gets the idea; and as it falls from her shoulder it's tossed into the metaphorical basket containing the abundance of other quotes the woman has told.

Wanda cares for her aunt—that is a given—she and her brother care _so much_. Mayra always reminds them to be open with their emotions and thoughts, insisting that there be no secrets in their household. But still, the teen feels like there are _some_ things that she just _can't_ tell the woman, and Wanda doesn't exactly know _why_ or what.

But most of it has to do with school things, social thing. Per typical for older adolescences.

At school, Wanda isn't the most popular girl—no, not by a long shot; not that she wants to be either, though she does occasionally daydream about the possibility... But there is no way that she could be either, and Wanda knew that. Wanda knew that she would never be popular. There is no way she could muster enough courage remove the hood from her head permanently, and the things she knew were keeping her from making a lot of changes she only wishes she could.

Without her hood, she fears she'd lose control.

Without her hood, she doesn't know what could happen.

The school could blow up  
She could make people fly across the room on accident  
Cause another accident of some wild animal charging rapid through the classes

Without her hood, she fears, and fears that _something_ will go wrong and that people could be harmed and she and her family would be discovered and they be arrested or deported or, or, or—

It's happened only once, she can remember, and Wanda is terrified of it happening again. Because of that once, she's had to watch her brother and aunt become defensive and wary, and Peter practically eliminate any chances of early friendships because of constantly making sure her wellbeing came first. And she's glad that at least he's found these two other mutants at school who's he is friends with, but...

 _Wanda presses the balls of her palms into her eye sockets._  
 _Her fingers, nails bitten down to the pink ends by anxiety, claw at her face_  
 _And in the darkness of her bedroom at midnight, she cries_  
 _And screams and cries._

It's happened once that Wanda has lost control in public—once other time at school, and she fears it would happen again.

All she wants is to be normal

And she still hasn't told about the exploding preserving jars that happened that one afternoon  
or the very low odds of a crane flying through the school windows of the first floor  
that she caused

 _Wanda still doesn't know that she caused the bathroom toilets to clog and overflow_

Wanda Maximoff is that quiet, kinda weird girl in school. She's the one whom others would hear about, and know that she has wavy brown hair, that she's quiet, probably can't dance, and always drinks those orange juice cartons, but she barely shows her face because of that damn red hood. She didn't like confrontation and when it does happen, rude, defensive words always seem to always slip out. That, but mostly incoherent mumbling. Or nothing at all. It depends, really. Side-eyeing has become her trademark answer.

To put it frankly, to many at school, Wanda is odd. She's obviously an introvert, is antisocial, and she has terrible social anxiety. She doesn't exactly get along or fit in with most and she only feels at ease in the wildlife club she became apart of at the end of her first year. She also feels at ease on her own, or with her family.

She did try once, to blend in, to be like others in her classes, but...

She's a misfit in all means of the definition.

She's different and she knows it.

She's a mutant and hates it.

And she hates it. She hates what she can do, she hates what society assumes and stigmatizes, but mostly she _hates_ what she is. More times than preferred, Wanda has caused damage to her family and anything that happens to be a surrounding bystander. She never means to for it to happen, but it does, and without her control. She doesn't _like_ it and tries to keep it from reoccurring, hoping.

She wishes she could make it stop happening.

She once wished for it to all stop, for her powers to go away.

But Wanda knows that that is inevitable—deep down she knows—and she absolutely _loathes_ it. But she can't do anything about it, and so she works to improve her control, that being the best case scenario given by her brother. It's her only option, like Peter is still learning to slow down more. And to her luck, an incident hasn't happened in weeks now.

In the school hallway, Wanda pushes her hair behind her ear. Her large hood casts a faint shadow over her face.

Maybe now she can muster up the strength to talk to Troy Baxter.

Wanda is standing at her open locker. The small metal door holds as a cover as she stares, transfixed on the sandy blonde socializing with his usual friends near the opposite side of the hall. She swallows the lump in her throat and wills the butterflies in her stomach to slow. They don't however, and she takes a few gulps of air before closing the locker, shuffle her books on her hip, and walk forward.

Troy is a part of the more popular group—with being on the school's basketball team, it granted him immediate status and own small clique. Wanda knows he has relatively good grades so that is a bonus, of him not being a slacker.

But as she nears, the butterflies don't still, and she swallows the tickle in her throat. Her pulse is racing and her hands begin to shake. She balls them into fists instead, shifting to hold the two textbooks in front of her chest.

Others on the basketball team, boys that Troy hangs with, are the tall ones who like to play against others because they know their height and agility is an advantage. And every time Wanda lays eyes on Troy, her stomach does summersaults and her heart sings, and she has to muster up the small spark of courage because she'll have to talk to him sooner or later. They've only spoken on a handful of occasions, most over borrowed writing utensils and to be partners for an in-class assignment, but _still_.

Wanda clears her throat. "H...hi, Tr-Troy..."

Their conversation immediately comes to a halt, and all boys turn to stare back. Wanda swallows. Troy's eyes are wide. His nearest friend shoots a questioning look. Wanda identifies two of them as those in her history class.

"Hi...um..." Wanda waves her hand. Her palms begin to sweat. Her teeth are chattering like she's cold. She doesn't notice her fingertips glowing a tinge red.

NERVOUS

FIDGET

BLUSH

Wanda pushes her hair behind her ear again, nervously, inadvertently pushing her hood back too.

Troy blinks.

One of the boys in the group nudge his shoulder, this one with a small afro. He chimes, "you're that quiet girl in my class!" And a sly grin spreads across his lips.

Wanda knows a taunt is coming afterwards and stops it, answering him. "Wanda. Yeah." She turns back to the one she had come for. "Um, Troy..." She moves her hands as she spoke, nervous and animated. She casts her eyes down and no one notices the slight purple in her eyes. "I...since, uh, Spirit Week... I-I wanted to see if you were doing, you know, anything? A-and if anyone has asked you yet...?"

Troy's smile seems a bit lazy. "Asked me what?"

"...About Spirit Week. Um, having a partner."

He shakes his head a bit too slowly.

"Ok then..."

Another boy at his side smirks. Wanda can feel the tension rising and the teasing that is surely to come, so, she immediately fears the worse outcome. Her hands burn a bright red from inside her jacket's long sleeves.

"I was wondering...if you and I could, um, partner up f-for Spirit Week. If that's ok with you...?"

He hesitates. "Wanda, right?"

Her gaze falls to the tile floor. She nods, and her face burns in a blush.

"...Sure."

His friends' necks snap to him, startled.

"Why not? I don't have a partner yet." It's spoken with a nonchalant shrug. "Sure," Troy repeats. "Yeah...yeah, I will." He's smiling widely now.

Wanda blinks and is speechless. Her wide eyes must have gave her thoughts away that she is just as surprised because Troy's friends are looking amongst themselves and back at her. There's an awkward pause that ends with Wanda clearing her throat again and suggests to discuss further during their next history class. To her surprise, Troy agrees just as easily.

Wanda wants to sway on her feet, knees weak already from stress and fear.

Their little meeting ends with her nodding and leaves. She's more surprised than shocked from his answer and can barely contain the wide smile that threatens to show when she turns her back.

 **. . .  
. . .**

Clarice Wilhelm is one of the most popular girls in school, and she'd like to keep it that way.

Known for her "flawless" hair and fashionable clothes, she is also pretty and attracted all the attention directed at her. She's ideal the girl that she wants all the others to envy and the boys to want. And surprisingly, it's never that hard for her to do.

She has her parents drive her to school in their sports car and they never get out to walk her in and therefore _embarrass_ her. She always smells enticing—like flowers, or peaches, they say—and the nerds can't _not_ let her copy their work that she never wants to do.

So she can't understand _why_ , or more likely _how_ , that weirdo Maximoff is going to pair with Troy Baxter during Spirit Week. An entire week! That girl—Wanda Maximoff—she's so _weird_ and it's so uncommon for someone like Troy to agree!

 _'What does he even see in her?!'_ Clarice wonders.

She didn't like him, no, not like that. Besides, she has the three guys she's keeping around until she decides which se wants, all wrapped around her skinny finger, and then not to mention that boy, Thomas. She knew Thomas had a crush on her years ago, and like so many others, but he has liked her since fifth grade and Clarice has, personally, never reciprocated those feelings. She hadn't liked him—still doesn't, in that way—but that isn't going to stop her from sucking up to him and acting like she does to manipulate him to her bidding.

Several years ago—three years to be exact—she convinced the poor brute that he would be able to be a part of the popular crowd if he only get rid of the other two slackers he called friends. One, Clarice knew was smarter than he let on and hoped he'd go on to being one of the nerds, but the other one...she had to conduct a plan to make sure the second wouldn't want to mend bonds.

She made Thomas humiliate his best friend.

LAUGH

POINT

TAUNT

CROWD

Well, to Clarcie, it had all been worth it, and she had gotten a front seat to watch. Now that little silver-haired dweeb is where he belongs: in the background with the other outcasts. Because Thomas is way too pretty and too delicious-looking to be hanging around someone as flat as that. Well, this is all in Clarice's opinion. And the fact that puberty is doing Thomas very well.

But still she wants more, more, _more_. More attention, more longing and gazes, more bending backwards for her will. She has to have all eyes on her and she hadn't liked what that Maximoff girl had done. Now when Clarice attends the school's basketball games, Troy Baxter wouldn't come over to talk to her, put his arm around her. Instead, he'd probably go to that _bitch_ , Wanda.

The news about Troy arrived the day after it happened, and obviously, Clarice isn't taking to it very well.

In fact, she almost _fumes_ at the thought. She glares at the back of that red jacket's throughout English and Writing class, and since they had assigned seats, had ignored her three friends questions alright. She is annoyed, and a bit more confused. It doesn't ease by lunchtime and her food is barely touched.

Why did he say _yes_? And from the story told, his friends hadn't objected either. And Clarice just can't understand _why_.

Mackenzie sits across from her, eating little of her lunch until finally choosing to stop her friend from shooting dangers. "Clarice," Mckenzie chews the bite of her iceberg salad, calls to the short-haired blonde but gets no response. " _Hey, Clarice_!" she yells and snaps the other out of her daze.

Clarice quickly recollects herself, blinking in response. As due to her queen bee status, there is no way she can ever appear ruffled or out of place—the taunting that would come from _that_ would be an avalanche. She has to always be _perfect_.

"What's with you?" Mckenzie asks, stabbing at her salad. "You've been bothered all day. What's up?"

Mckenzie sits beside the blonde at the lunch table, always. The numerous others at their table are into their own separate conversations. Clarice considers if whether now is a time to tell, or if she should even tell at all.

Clarice is the popular girl that could have socially everything she could want

So she should be able to handle some quiet wannabe

"Some wise guy getting on your nerves again?" Mckenzie chuckles, swallowing down the last of her salad. She begins going after her fish sticks next.

It's a funny question because they, both girls, could start a rumor and it could get rid of their problems in a couple weeks, spreading across the school in record time and determining yhe rumor, could boost that whom is the subject or completely corrupt their social identity and life.

Their main powers are words and taunting

PERSUASION

"Something like that," Clarice muses, still unsure whether to reveal all her thoughts or not. She can't have anything come back to bite.

Looking around, she can't see that damn red jacket anywhere here in the lunchroom, and she suspects that what's-her-face Maximoff must be elsewhere on campus, though hopefully far from Clarice's perimeter. Either way, the blonde is glad because she just isn't _here_.

Clarice bites into one of her curly fries and decides to tell. "There's this weirdo wannabe that's really been on my nerves—-"

"You too! _Oh my god_ ," Mckenzie throws her hands up in relief and Clarice's brows furrow in confusion. "I've got the same problem! And let me tell you, it the most _annoying_ thing!"

"Really?" A small smile plays on the blonde's features. She doesn't reveal that this too she already knows.

"Clarice—yes! I don't know _how_ I'm going to get out of this one. I think I might have to _actually_ go with him—I mean I already said _yes_ , but I think I might actually have to _go_ with this dweeb to get him off my back."

Clarice shakes her head, making a pitying click with her tongue.

"You'd be surprised at how difficult these little idiots can be, _my god_ ," Mckenzie adds with an eye roll.

"One of them got Troy Baxter. I think he's really going to Spirit Week with her."

Mckenzie places down the water bottle that had been raised to her lips. "Who?" Her eyes widen, ever the gossiper.

"That girl. Whatever-her-name-is. Red jacket. In our English class—you know. I think her name's Wanda. Remember we saw her coming out the bathroom when the pipes busted?"

Mckenzie shakes her head. That the name doesn't ring a bell.

"She's the girl who was leaking period blood through her pants in Fitzgerald's science class."

Mckenzie finally snaps at attention, remembering hearing about it. "Wow, that must have been embarrassing," she snickers.

"I know. I'd just _die_ if that happened to me."

Mckenzie catches sight of Troy at his table off to the left. He and other boys are talking, Troy with one leg up on the seat. "No. I mean how embarrassing because I don't think Troy actually likes her. At least, not really."

"Of course he doesn't." But still, there's a spark of uncertainty in Clarice.

They really are the only ones in their own little bubble at their table.

"I don't think he's really that into her."

Clarice asks if that assumption _just_ clicked. "You mean he's _using_ her?" It's spoken more as a correction.

"Of course. Or at least going to ditch her when Spirit Week comes. I mean, who would _want_ to go with something like _her_? I'd leave her too."

Clarice smirks. Her best friend would undoubtedly do just that if ever in similar situation. Well, what _else_ could she do? Mckenzie is still watching the aforementioned basketball player a few lunch tables away. This whole situation, this entire agreement he had made was a fluke, Clarice knows. It's all an illusion, another cruel joke, and she knows that there is no way _Troy Baxter_ could like someone like basket case Wanda. Besides, Clarice wants all of that attention he could give.

She taps a manicured finger on the tabletop. Both girls don't speak for several minutes, just silently watching and planning.

Beside Clarice, a boy who had previously been in a heated argument cuts off and turns to the blonde beside him. His large arms snake around Clarice's waist to bring her against his side and his nose down to her collar. She smells sweet again, enticing, and hypnotizing, as if he'd so easily willingly do anything she asks. The blonde squeals in his arms, squirming as his stubble begins to tickle her neck.

He breaths deeply. "You smell like flowers," he smiles.

She giggles, out of breath, "it's all natural, babe."


	13. 11: detention ii (Episode 5)

_**A/N:**_ ** _This was originally two chapters but was combined to one._**

* * *

Sherry doesn't take well to those more at the very peak of the popular crowd, those at the very apex, the crowd that is filled with liars and bullies. Sure, she's quite well known herself, but there is a fine line between being " _good_ popular" and " _bad_ popular"—at least, in her mind there is—and she had chosen which side she would be on from the beginning.

She's tried talking to Mckenzie Shabotz, Clarice Wilhelm, and the others in their lot, but it always ended not in some form of disagreement, or argument, and Sherry concluded that the girls just wouldn't ever get along, and all those on their side just would never speak out against the two queen bees. This popular crowd has been split down the middle, a sort of light and manipulating dark grey. Clarice's crowd of associates is far larger than Sherry's, many of them from the school's sports teams. That side of the popular world provides most of the house parties, kept the cliques and outcasts in their places, and hosts most of the school events—they are literally at the top of the social chain with not much competition knocking them unsteady. But still, Sherry choses her fights carefully.

Sherry Addams has been shunned, teased, and belittled in front of bystanders by Clarice and Mckenzie, but she likes to think she is too optimistic for their negativity to cloud her head for long and to let it get to her. Those people are pretty and smile at the camera, but talk shit and show their demon tails behind the scenes. That's also how she imagines them, since growing up in the same town.

Especially Mckenzie and Clarice.

Sherry is very talkative and has unintentionally made a sort of posse of her own, even though she isn't constantly around them, and opposing to Clarice who uses hers as a sort of crutch.

Sometimes, Sherry talks a little too much which put some people off from her. But the thing about Sherry is that she doesn't care much and she isn't very picky on whom she socializes with, because again, she doesn't allow the negative talk about others deter her from making friends, no matter their status. Sherry is always nice—to the best of her ability—she likes to think of herself as such—and which is why she continues talking to Rainy. She remembers when the girl had been much more cheery than she is now until _something_ happened to her that took that away. She knows Rainy's home-life is tough, and so she tries to help whenever she can.

Well, actually, it _isn't_ , but still.

Michelle White doesn't like Sherry, really. She thinks the strawberry blonde has a motor mouth and doesn't know when to put a cork in it, and she once spoke that Sherry is a bit _annoying_. Michelle doesn't like Rainy hanging around her and tries to get the girl to sit far from the strawberry blonde when sharing class or whenever possible. But Sherry will take notice now and then about it, remembering, and waits until class is over to confront the brunette, after Michelle departs of course.

Sherry is described as too talkative but is noted for her intelligence, and she is partially oblivious to hints. As such, when it becomes the third day Rainy Capulet has been arriving at school wearing that oversized, ugly jacket and looking like she's up to no good likely to be caught because she's terrible at sneaking anyway, it passes over Sherry's head and shrugged off as nothing. Sherry remembers Rainy showing the jacket to her once. It's the girl's father. She has seen him a handful of times in person, even more on television commercials.

It would not have been such a noticeable deal if it wasn't for Rainy's father's jacket.

 _"I could care less about his decisions and what he does. It's not my concern,"  
_ Rainy had said once

Remembering that quote, Sherry finally becomes suspicious.

And thus, this is her motivation as to why she is waiting by the water fountain, twirling a red curl and waiting until Michelle departs in the opposite direction for her next class. Sherry had caught up with Rainy here; she leans against the neighboring locker as someone shuffled inside their own beside her, and Sherry purposely bumps against the metal doors to draw the attention of Rainy.

"So," Sherry crosses her arms, eyeing Rainy as she approaches, "what's with the jacket?"

"What about it?" The brunette answers with a straight face.

"What do you mean _what about it_? Isn't that your _dad's_ jacket?" Sherry's voice rises a little, all in emphasis.

"So?"

Rainy shrugs, unfazed and unbothered, and the clues obviously bouncing off her. Meanwhile, the strawberry blonde is ready to freak out, overthinking the situation and assuming that there is surely something _wrong_ with her friend.

"Don't tell me you're getting worked up over a piece of clothing, Sherry?"

She straightens at the other's dull expression. "Well I _wouldn't_ if it wasn't your _dad's_." She leans in a little, her arms still crossed over her pink top. Then, speaking slowly, "what's going on, Rainy?"

"Well, what makes you think something's going on?"

"Rainy…"

"Look, Sherry," Rainy raises her hands, palms up, in a sort of shrug. "I've just got things to do. And the bell's about to ring and my paper is due in next class…" She waits for a response or objection, and when she doesn't get one, she adds, "do you want to be late?"

Sherry stares, thinking over her next words carefully, until finally giving up and starting down the hallway for their next class they share. Rainy keeps close beside her.

Sherry huffs. "I know there's something going on."

"Do you now?" If Rainy could, she'd raise an eyebrow in mock suspicion.

"Yes. And I know the bell's about to ring. And don't think I'm going to act like absolutely _nothing's_ going on. _You_ don't just pull your parent's clothes out the closet for no reason. Especially yours. And I'm surprised you could find something other than tye-dye in there."

Rainy knows that there is a lot of tye-dye clothing in her home—too much, in fact—mainly brought by her mother. But surely Rainy never comsidered it to be _that_ much.

She's wearing a tye-dye shirt under her jacket, but she isn't going to tell Sherry that.

* * *

This time, Newell seems to be more empathetic today to the students in after-school of this third day of detention. Instead of ordering another intensely-critiqued essays like the ones he is so infamous for, he allows the students to work on their homework. When a girl walked up to ask for assistance, he helped her, which is a total surprise to the speedster. Because as far as Peter knows, Newell is a heartless ogre with greying hair.

Peter runs a hand through his own light hair and looks back down at his most blank page of notebook paper. He rarely completes his homework—it's Wanda who usually encourages him to do so, or else it would sit for days until he finally completes it—but he's already finished his math homework, and completed defining all those science vocabulary terms. It's all easy work. The difficult one, which is the bane of his existence, the one that is going to be the death of him is English and Writing. Peter rakes both hands through his hair and tugs at the ends. That old English teacher expects them to read from page 324 to 363, read some textbook story that would take an eternity, and then write a two-page paper analyzing it. Already, it's taking him _hours_ to get past the first twenty pages.

Closing the textbook, the young mutant runs his hands over his face, letting out a groan. Try as he might, he just _couldn't_ concentrate on it for this long. He's been trying to for two hours. It had been 4:58 in the afternoon, and it is now...

Peter looks to the clock hanging high at the front of the room. It read 5:28 p.m.

He wants to flip the goddamn table.

His head slowly slips from his hands to fall _loudly_ to the tabletop. The preppy girl at the table to his right looks over. Peter groans again and is shushed by Newell. To be honest, the teen had forgotten the man was still in the room; he doesn't doubt that the teacher must be getting a kick out of his suffering.

How is he going to get past the next hour and a half?

He groans again. Newell threatens to throw him out into the hall and have to come back for yet _another_ detention session. The teen considers holding out his middle finger.

Another student, a nerdy kid who goes by the name Hughes, asks for assistance with some assignment. The girl at Peter's right uncaps a marker to doodle in her notebook.

Suddenly, Peter's head snaps up an this hand shoot up in the air. "Newell! I gotta take a whizz!"

The man looks up, head still tilted down in the direction of his newspaper. The report he had been reading was about some girl, a star of the girls basketball and track team somewhere, a few cities south, had been discovered as a mutant, and then _this_ smart-alic calls out...

Newell's nose wrinkles.

Peter has his hand raised.

Newell thinks for a second more. "Hold it."

Peter's hand falls. He then looks around, spots a lone plastic cup probably left by a previous class. "Nevermind." He reaches to grab the cup. "I think I can use this... Well, when you gotta go..." He puts the cup underneath his table, leans back, and begins unzipping his jeans.

Taken more by surprise, Newell shouts, "OUT!"

The mutant leaves quickly—but not _too_ quickly—a grin peaking on his face. The cup is tossed in the small wastebasket near the door then he shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. Out in the hallway, he snickers aloud. He doesn't get near the restrooms.

 **. . .  
. . .**

Maybe eight minutes later, Peter stretched his legs, had ran up the street to gorge at the nearby McDonald's, and stole a spare lollipop from some kid who had three sticking out of his pockets. Now refreshed and having long forgotten about his homework, per usual, the young mutant debates about whether to return to detention or not. He had all the power in the world to never again—he could, and no one would be able to stop him... But then he thought about the earful he would get from Marya, and then from the administrators of the school, and then probably having a one-on-one detention session with Newell himself which _would_ be torture...and he didn't want to give the man that pleasure...

Peter tosses his head up to the darkening sky and whines. If only he didn't have to go back to detention.

Sneaking back into the school was hardly a problem at all. He passes the boys' downstairs restrooms and makes a pitstop. When exiting and then passing the girls', his steps pick up in speed. There is a rumor, a story that a boy had been attacked in there after sneaking in behind a girl. He had been brought to the hospital where he later passed, his skin sliced up like bologna. Some like to claim that the boy never really _left_ the school, that restroom in particular.

Peter makes it rather far before leaning against one of the brick walls, sucking the lollipop and wondered how long it would be until he ran into Juliet again. She would likely want her necklace back, he thinks as he pulls the golden locket from his jacket pocket and dangles it from his fingers.

He still calls Rainy by her unflattering nickname: Juliet.

The lollipop stick twirls between his lips. He doesn't much care for the place except for the people—that's why wondering the halls was such a time killer. Peter comes to a stop at the entrance of the school's library. On any other occasion it wouldn't have bothered him...except that almost everyone had gone home an hour ago and he is pretty sure these doors should have been locked and the lights inside should not be on. He glances down the halls again before cautiously stepping inside.

Peter walks past the front desk, running his hands across the counter, the stapler, hole-puncher, and other office supplies. Then he pauses, skips backwards to stuff a few Post-It pads in his pocket and then wonders to the center of the open room. At the front of the library is a large open area. Moving forward, one will pass tables for studying; bookshelves line the last few reading tables and covered the rest of the library.

He sucks the lollipop, making a popping sound when taking it from his lips. He glances around the room once more, and upon hearing shuffling, popping the candy back in his mouth and sneaks forward to uncover it. A slight grin of his grows at the thought of catching a thief or sneaking up on a few thick-lens glasses drooling over a Playboy like a seventh grader. The hard candy clicks against his teeth. His shoes don't make a sound as he creeps around the corner of one of the bookshelves.

Peter crouches, ready to jump and scare whomever has snuck inside...but he stops as a book is shelved and the other's footsteps leave in the opposite direction. Confused, he glances down the aisle they had just been, and catches the vanishing color of dark green. He grumbles in disappointment and then turns to leave. He stops cold hearing another's voice.

"You're footsteps are ridiculously loud. No wonder no one's afraid of you. I bet you wouldn't be able to sneak up on a dog."

Peter sees Rainy walk from the bookshelves to the checkout desk. He frowns initially but then decides to confront her and shoves his hands into his sweater's deep pockets.

"Why are _you_ here," he speaks around the lollipop stick between his teeth.

Rainy merely glanced up at him from flipping through the book in her hands. She had come to get first dibs on a new novel that just arrived, to add it to the books on hold shelved behind the front desk—but she isn't going to tell him that.

Rainy blinks. Pauses. Replies, "you have something that's mine."

"Oh—and what's that?"

"And you're going to give it to me," she finishes looking through the novel.

"What makes you think I'd do anything for you?" he challenges, knowing she doesn't like drawing out arguments, much less doing confrontations itself. "What makes you think I have anything that's _yours_?"

Rainy goes behind the front desk and begins searching for the slot with her name labeled with tape. "I can always go and expose your truth to the populars. I'm sure they'd find just as much enjoyment out of your fantasy as I have."

Peter tries not to huff aloud. "Don't forget I have dirt on you too," he threatens back. "Little Miss _'_ _I Can't Feel Anything'._ " He raises his hands to his sides in a mocking fashion.

Rainy finds the slot and hides the book under hers already there. Peter leans over the counter to watch.

But it isn't that Rainy doesn't want others to know about her curse—she could care less, actually. But it is the rational part of her that speaks if others _do_ know, she'll end up like that girl in the recent news, that basketball star who had been discovered a mutant.

She stands. He steps back from the counter.

Peter looks Rainy up and down, and not for the first time, focuses a second too long as she brings her hair out from inside her oversized jacket.

"Why are you even here?"

He's startled.

"I'm not going to repeat myself over and over." Rainy steps out from behind the front desk. "Now, give it back." Her hand outstretches, palm up, and her lip are in a set line and her gaze is focused.

"Ah ah," Peter chides. "What makes you think I'm going to give it up so easily? You obviously _don't_ know me."

"I don't need to."

He gives a mocking pout. "Aw, and after all our time spent together?" A glint shines in his eyes, and his composure collects at an idea. "Wait. You'll have to do something for _me_ first."

"No."

 _Short and to the point_

Peter hadn't been expecting that answer and so quickly. He pauses, gaping a little before recollecting himself once again. Then he shrugs, juts out his bottom lip, and nods, and starts walking toward the library doors. "Well, I guess you don't want it back then..."

And he knows that Rainy is watching—glaring, more like—at his back. He can practically _feel_ it.

He takes the locket out, and swings it from his fingers with a smug look she can't see with his back to her. And he walks slowly, knowing, hoping. The quiet of the library lingers, drags, until:

"Name your price."

BINGO

* * *

It's been two days since that first incident during school detention, when Peter stole Rainy's heart-shaped necklace and threatened to expose to her curse to the school. It's been two days because Rainy hadn't been able to convince her mother that she needed to stay late after school again, her mother growing suspicious about her coming home late, and since then she's spent the day with her feet on her headboard, tossing a ball in the air, and watching the sun creep across her bedroom, plotting, and planning.

For Peter, he'd won himself three more days worth of detention instead of one. That's why he is back here after classes ended long ago. But it isn't _his_ fault. No, it had been the sluggish sleazeball, Newell. He's just an old, cranky _jackass_ who has nothing else to do but to drone on and on and on and drive students to _death_ with his droning. At least, that's what Peter convinces himself.

In reality, Peter Maximoff had spoken a sharp, disrespectful response to Newell, and then proceeded to argue with the teacher. But since Newell had a dentist appointment, Peter is only to stay for three days in after-school detention instead of the five Newell originally wished to give. Today is the last day.

Detention is set up in the school's library; no one is to touch each other, nor interact, nor even _look_ at each other, he had ordered. A girl in a dark navy shirt and black jeans had been the one to point out the flaw ( _lack of breathing_ ) in the order, a snarky grin to her face. The girl is in detention for this one day. A girl in pastel pink, shoes and bag to match, is only here for today too—whom Peter nicknamed Pinkie Pie. And that boy, Hughes, had returned, much to Peter's surprise, but upon being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time and is being punished under false assumption.

Newell had merely rolled his eyes and sighed upon finding this out, falling in to the chair he's wheeled over.

Peter had sneered.

Wanda still doesn't know and Peter is, in fact, thankful—as far as she and Marya knew, he had gone off with his friends after school. This is the third day in a row the teen has detention, the two additional days Marya had not been noticed, and he knows she would be questioning him about the hour he will be returning home. Even so, he knew that he would just lie. It's an easier and painless solution.

Unintentionally, Newell's one day he was supposed to hold detention turned into two. And since the original professor hadn't showed up, it ruined Newell's plans and he is _not_ ok with it.

There are four other students this time, amongst them included Peter Maximoff and John Hughes, both of whom had their heads on the desks when Mr. Newell walked in from a restroom break. He walked to the front of the room with his hands on his hips and sighed heavily.

"No sleeping!"

All sit back with collected groans and glares. No one meets his eyes and all look like they are in pain.

Newell glances over the students. "...Who needs to use the john?"

All hands raise.

 **. . .  
. . .**

The goody-two-shoes Hughes is seated next to Peter who is becoming increasingly agitated the more the boy leans his head back with his pencil on his top lip. Not only has the mutant been sitting here for another eternity, but Peter has been listening to this kid mumble to himself over homework for the past _hour_ —though it's really only been ten minutes, but _still_. It's like the kid is _trying_ to be annoying: his _stupid questions_ , his pickiness about his mother-packaged lunch, the constant mumbling under his breath that Peter is _quite sure_ is sass about him, the copying of Peter's movements as he rested his head, then taking off is jacket, as if a mock. Luckily Hughes comprehends the stare in Peter's eyes and shrugs his back on, making a show of warming his hands too. But still, the mutant needs to move; he can't sit still, not for long.

And being bored can cause trouble. Trouble always comes to those who don't know how to sit still.

Twenty minutes pass. Peter throws paper balls into the wastebasket, and missing terribly, shooting between the girl in pink and the boy in a letterman sitting in front of him. Letterman plays air guitar—much to the annoyance to Mr. Newell—but nothing else gets better.

The long hand in the clock moves thirty minutes further. Hughes folds paper airplanes. Peter begins dozing off. Pinkie Pie cleans her cuticles.

Sometime ago, Peter asked Pinkie Pie and Letterman if they were going together... _dating..._ steady dates...lovers. Peter received one dirty look and yelled at by the girl; he guesses he shouldn't have told that crude joke afterwards either.

He has no regrets.

Luckily, Newell must have gotten enough of the mutant too, having left to read his newspaper in the next room for this lunch break, and to listen to the ball game over radio.

And having already suffered over the homework he still hasn't finished, Peter stands, a sneaky smile growing on his face at the unsupervised opportunity. None of the other detention attendees make a move to take over.

"How about we close that door...and have our own party in here, yes?" He's already walking to close the doors of the room. "We already have our own dancing girl and everything." He motions to the girl in all pink and receives a scowl.

"If you don't _shut your pie hole_ I'm gonna _kick_ your ass!" Letterman points.

"Oh really?" Peter smirks, and raises a brow to Pinkie beside him.

"If I get out of this seat, you're toast, bud. You better leave her alone."

Newell shouts a reminder from across the short hall that there shouldn't be any talking.

Then Peter sneers, sitting back in his seat and the jock turned back around.

"I'm not going to be stuck here any longer because of _your_ sorry ass," the football player mutters.

Peter ignores him, saunters over to a short bookshelf along the wall and hauls himself to the top. His shoes tap the air impatiently. He wonders where that girl Juliet is and what is taking her so long. She had agreed to meet up in this classroom after ensuring that Newell always leaves two hours into the detention session. Of course she had been stubborn about it at first, and Petet couldn't believe his _luck_ when she caved in, and then he couldn't stop _smiling_. But...it was all a trick.

Juliet must _truly_ have nothing else to do—well, he's beginning to think that, to believe that, despite the times she's spoken that herself—but it didn't _hit_ as a _true_ possibility. He thought someone like her would have many to hang around, who had a busy schedule pleasing others and taking advantage of their assets.

He suddenly remembers the stolen locket in his pocket.

 _Why did she want it back so badly?_

His musing and near silence of the room lasts for no more than five minutes until the mutant grows restless again. Grabbing a random book, he flips through absentmindedly, and realizes it's an old dictionaries, and he begins tearing the pages out.

Letterman gives a mixture look of shock and anger. "That's really tough," he comments sarcastically.

Peter rolls his eyes, shoots back with equal sarcasm, "because it's _wrong_ to ruin literature, right?" He tears out another few pages. "I think we'll all live. No one's going to miss a few pages in an old dictionary."

Letterman givs a look of annoyance now.

"And..." He looks closer at the page opened. "'Sophagus _really_ gets me going."

"Sophocles."

Letterman and Peter look up too to see Rainy walking into the room, hands in the pockets of her oversized navy jacket, and marching straight for the speedster.

" _Sophocles_ ," Peter corrects, afraid to look away from her pitiless, pinpointed focus.

And he swallows, stands, Peter forces his shoulders lax. "Took you long enough, Juliet."

Rainy would have snarled. "You have a deal with me and I'm here to repay my end of it. I'm not here for any of your pranks or jokes. One will be far enough to ensure me to go straight and tell the whole school your secrets." She enunciating each word so clearly, so _crisply_ , and without shame. It's fierce, and sure, and self-contained that he begins to grow timorous about defy her.

The jock wearing the letterman doesn't interfere. Across the school, Rainy is known as cutthroat, and the speedster hasn't dared utter another word as of yet.

The girl in pink is watching from her desk. "Um, _who_ are you?"

Rainy looks at her from the corner of her eye, is ignored, and looks back to Peter. "Seems like you've been more of a delinquent since I was gone. I hope nothing drastic has happened."

"Don't talk like you're trying to discipline me. Or that anyone needs you here." He flips to a page somewhere in the T section.

"Of course you do."

He glares. He slowly rips another page as if to spite her.

Across the short hall, Newell bursts out in a cry as the team he roots for scores.

Hughes taps a finger on his desk. "I like Sophocles' work—-"

He tries to ease the tension in the room and earns the remains of the dictionary thrown at him.

"No one cares!" Peter spits.

Rainy is still watching, because she's here for her share of the deal and she's going to _make sure_ that he doesn't weasel out before she gets her necklace back. Then the mutant jumps down from atop the bookshelf, feet dragging across the carpet.

"Tell me, Juliet, do _you_ like books?"

She thinks before answering. "Don't waste my time, Maximoff."

Peter ignores her. "Because if _so_ , I got a proposition for you if you really, truly, want your little trinket back."

"Necklace," she corrects.

"Necklace, right."

He brings the golden locket necklace from his pocket and it catches the eye of Hughes and the jock. Rainy takes a beat to look away from it and back at him.

MEMORIES

HOME

WARM

 _GOLDEN_

"It won't be that hard," Peter encourages. "And if you say _yes_ , I'll give it back with no problem."

"I told you I'm not playing any of your trick—-"

"This isn't a trick, Juliet. I promise. It's just a..." He forgets the word. "A bargain." He's wearing a impish smirk of amusement and his head is tilted to the side. He knows that he has her right where he wants.

Rainy hesitates. She decides her possibilities and predictable outcomes. And that's when Letterman stands from his chair. "How're you going around robbing girls and then making bargains with them, you cheap scum!"

Peter turns slowly to the boy in the varsity letterman jacket, a snarl growing on his face.

" _Look_ , this _doesn_ 't involve you—-!"

"It is every bit my business when you go around being a _sick_ _bastard_!"

In the other room, Newell places his paper down and lowers the volume of the radio to eavesdrop.

Peter is taken aback. "Sick bastard...?!" His eyes widen as it then clicks to him. He waves the boy off instead of growing angry, and turns back to the brunette. "Hey. _So_ , Juliet, do you read, or are you illiterate as well as rude?"

"What is your deal?" Her composure is stoic and calm.

"It depends... On how much you like to do that," he looks her in the eyes and for a second, his gaze trailing down but only for a second, "and write."

"Fairly well."

" _Fairly_ well? I need good or nothing." Peter slaps the back of his hand into his other palm.

"It's good then. Now, are you going to tell me what is this deal so this can all be over?"

"I need you to write for me—-"

"Fine. It should be easy writing your death note, with your writing level."

Peter wants to bristle but holds it in. "No..." He inhales and holds his tongue. "A _paper_. You are going to do them— _all of them_ —whenever I ask you to. And _then_ you can have your necklace back."

There's another prolonged pause of silence—the two measure out each other, and to the relief of everyone else in the room, fear from possibly hearing one of her harsh comments and witnessing Peter verbally torn to shreds, to all of their relief Rainy gives in.

"Alright..." And Peter places the golden necklace in her open hand. She toys with it before giving him one final look. "When hell freezes over," she finishes and _sprints_.

Peter has to do a double-take.

He is unable to catch up to her at normal speed—normal because he is still in view of others—before he is spotted and called back by Newell returning to the reserved detention classroom. Peter groans in frustration. Rainy either must have been ignored or not been seen because there wasn't a shout for her to freeze. But either way she has already turned the corner and is likely approaching the school's front doors. And Peter has no choice but to oblige. All he could do is shove his hands in his pockets, grumble about the _little liar_ she is as he shuffles back inside to wait out the remaining last hour of detention.


	14. blazing bee (Episode 5)

_Float like a butterfly_

Younger sister to an older brother in college, Karen Leung is enrolled in the eighth grade in her local middle school. She is to turn fifteen at the end of July.

Karen has always been a sort of tomboy, favoring sports and poking fun at her brother over frills and bows and the color pink. She has always been team-obligated, and doesn't shun from being competitive during her school's games' meets, and she is always one of those cheering the loudest in the stands. She enjoys socializing, her friends, and play-fighting. Her eyes possess an aggressive look, but her talents have always seemed better suit for the ball court. She can fly across the basketball court, and has earned the team points in record time.

Karen enjoys fighting too much to fit the normality's standards of _feminine_ , but she didn't care; others wouldn't call her _manly_ , but boyish. This is a running "joke" in her home, her parents saying that she is so manly she could bring home a girl instead of a husband.

In her home, to actually do so would be considered a dishonor and insult.

Her parents, Kamon and Mai Leung, both born from immigrants who came from eastern Asia, the Leung household is strict and traditional. Even when Karen announced about her school's girls basketball team, her parents had not been very enthusiastic and were actually quite against it. She hadn't even hinted that she was going to try out for the team yet.

Karen never reveals her personal plans, only the results. And her parents hate it, but her brother knows why and understands—he's just too afraid to do sneak around himself or to tell Karen's plans. Her brother resents their strictly traditional household just as much as she, and knew without even spoken words that Karen never told about tryouts until the deed had been committed so her parents couldn't fully object. She never told because by the time she did, it had all already been done, and there was no going back then. That is what she had done when signing up for the school's girls' basketball team, that is, after persuasion to try out from her teacher.

Karen is a young girl whose play is a gift. But if you told her, she wouldn't believe it.

 _Sting like a bee_

She's sassy, stern, and a jokester. Karen is discovered by her gym teacher one day in class when she had been taunted by some boys. He had noticed her skill, the spring in her jumps, hand-feet-eye coordination. She had been asked to join the team, but knowing her parents, Karen had turned it down and spent the next rest of the year watching from the bleachers.

BEE

FAST

FLAME

But she didn't like that. She couldn't have that. Though she respects her parents very much, her need—her want for sports overruled. She's a buzzing bee, full of energy and spirit and couldn't sit still for too long. She wants something to do besides the usual routine of studying, eating, sleeping, and repeat. She _needs_ a purpose. And that day as she watches the team train on the field, pressing her face to the metal fence, she makes her decision.

Though she respects her parents' traditional terms, there had been just _so much_ in the world that she is being hindered and wants to experience. And her parents want her to study. Everyday she studies, studies, studies, watches her limited TV, eats, and studies. She's too embarrassed to bring her friends over, more in fear of her parents' harsh judgement. She never reveals the full events of her day when asked, not wanting to be victim of their downcast, subtly disappointing stares.

And she hates it. Sometimes she envies her brother about how he had managed to getaway. She waits for the day that would be her.

Karen envies the other kids in her grade, those of her ancestry and not, who— _whom_ she guesses—had a much more laid back household. Karen envies that.

She wants that.

But she feels hindered; she feels restricted and a bit trapped. Even though she has the good grades, she has a few good friends, and a loving home, but still she feels trapped. She's constantly being questioned about what she wants to do with her life, what she wants to be.

A doctor?

A sergeant?

A lawyer?

A company owner?

They are all big things that weighs on her. She doesn't want to think about it, and hated to. She would rather travel and get away from it all—she'd much rather run.

So, she not only joins her school's girls basketball team, but joins the track team as well. And she doesn't fail there either.

Her coaches are an understandably mixture of shock and awe at her outstanding stamina and performance. She becomes the school's shining star and her coaches give the praises she always wished for.

But of course, her parents hear if it, and they are not so _pleased_. Her father criticizes that she wouldn't have enough time to study now—even though she continues to have excellent grades. But again, Karen hadn't cared. She doesn't speak against him when he rants but she doesn't do as he wants either.

At practice, Karen works hard. She jumps high and runs as fast as she can until she collapses and rolls over on the ground, exhausted. Her coaches would ask if she is alright and she would stick a fist in the air, signaling triumph.

And then the competitions roll around. And Karen almost never see her parents in the stands unless near the end of the games to take her home. But again, she doesn't care because she is cheered and congratulated and _admired_ by her teammates and that is enough for her. To her parents, however, they don't even keep eye contact during the subject. And after every game, Karen calls long distance to her brother to tell him the score. She always lies too, telling her parents that she is phoning a friend. Both siblings know of the disappointment to come if it's found out that her brother supports her behavior.

And it gets to a point where Karen begins loosing her place with her high grades, and they began slipping as her play improves and her focus leans. But she holds low A's and receives an occasional high B grades, but that isn't good enough in her eyes. The overachiever she has been pressured to be, Karen would crumple the paper or quiz and tell herself that she would _work_ _harder_ , study, and do _much_ _better_ on the next one. She lies to her mother that the missing returned quiz must have slipped out her hands.

FIRE

STING

BEE

Toward their winning game was when it happened, when everything came crashing down. It has been nearing the end of basketball season.

Karen applies a fresh tampon. She has been struggling to get rid of a constant acne at the time, a flickering ache that would come and bite at her ankles and lace up her calf until suddenly disappearing. That, and menstrual cramps.

And it had been after school while she had practicing outside, luckily alone. She was running the school's track and doing hurdles the first time it happened. At the third to last she was to complete, which she is to sprint to the remaining of the track, this is a day she wouldn't forget. It had been hot that day, given it was summer and she had been sweating buckets in her tank top and basketball shorts. Karen had made a running start for the hurdle and sprints. As she makes a jump for it, there is the smell of burning rubber or the like. She trips up and skids slightly, turning to see a small trail of fire on the track, following where her sneakers had been. Her shoes were on fire too, she sees, from her ankles down to the ground are little flames licking at her skin.

And of course she panics, did the _stop, drop and roll_ procedure, and blames it all on the heat. She had been sure no one saw and then decides to go inside to the gym and practice her shoots before the upcoming basketball match.

It happens there again, following her hitting the floor planks after a slam dunk. Her teammates steadily grows silent and still. It's a few seconds until Karen realizes why. She flings her shoes off and finds that the small flames are actually emitting from her _skin_ , and as she touches her unharmed ankles, almost in fascination, and it spreads to her fingers and makes a line down her arm to her shoulder.

She's amazed and alarmed.

She could burn and turn into fire and not be harmed.

She's stunned and stupefied.

She's a _mutant_ , and her heart stutters.

 _At the end-of-the-year game was when it happened, when everything came crashing down_

The score was winning 26-8 and the HOME team is winning—Karen's team. But of course it would—she's the star player and one of the best on the team.

And everything had been going swell too. They were dodging the opposing team left and right, only a few times did someone slip up and the ball went to the other team. But other than that, Karen was flying between the players and the points kept coming.

And her brother had made it to the game this time, thanks to a free week in college. Karen was on cloud 9.

She never told that she is a mutant.

She couldn't. Mutants are an abomination, they are disgusting and a mistake. They're less than human, and Karen would be _damned_ to be associated with them, _as_ one of them. Her life would be _over_.

She should have thought of that before.

Karen is flying across the court, cocky at the fact that they are winning, and she doesn't notice the spark on her shoes or the marks across the floorboards until the room grows deathly silent when she is about to take the winning shot.

The room grows silent

Karen freezes

All eyes on her

Room grows

SILENT

Eyes spinning

Horror

Trouble

RED

This isn't good. No, this isn't good at all.

Karen pauses, still positioned with the basketball in her hands to make the winning shot, and everyone in the gymnasium is watching the flames around her shoes and licking up her legs. As the tension and fear grows, the flames climb her thighs, consume her legs, turning them into twin torches and burning her uniform shorts.

She is turning into flames.

Across the court are dark burn streaks where she had slid. She had been jumping and sliding across the gym and marks are evident where she jumped too high for someone her size, or when she hurried quicker up with speed and agility she wasn't supposed to be capable of.

Everyone

IN THE ROOM

Was staring

STARING

RED

HORROR

BLIND

DISGUSTING

WRONG

MUTANT

RED

 **WRONG**

Karen was a mutant in a town of normals, discovered as one in her middle school just another state over. It all wasn't taken well.

Karen Leung died at fourteen. She was to turn fifteen at the end of July.

Discovered in a world where people hate what's different, she lived a short life. And her family couldn't have it—what she was, what she could do. It mattered no longer what she aspired to become, whom she was to become in the future.

Her brother turned away. There was no welcoming warmth, no assuring look in his eyes as she looked to his direction back on that court for some kind of help or support. There was nothing he could do.

There couldn't be a mutant in their home, a monstrosity.

Karen would have grown up to be a lawyer.

She became page 12 news the next morning instead.

* * *

Her obituary and story is printed in the newspaper a day later, the paper Mr. Newell haphazardly tosses in the trash can after supervising a failed detention session earlier that week.


	15. 12: baggin (Episode 6)

Wanda revels in her prevailing with the popular ball player Troy Baxter last week, of her shooting to the moon and landing, startlingly victorious, and she is absolutely _euphoric._ The teen hopes that if Spirit Week goes well, then maybe, just _maybe_ , though it feels like a reach on her part, there could be a possible chance or _hope_ that she and Troy could move on to something more. It's so much a fantasy but she would be overjoyed if fate be on her side, and sometimes she would daydream scenarios of first dates and maybe prom and then graduation and perhaps both buying a little apartment in college together...

Wanda is an optimist, to say the least.

It is a stretch, she knows, but there still could be a good probability that it could be a possible future. She wants—she hopes. And creating these playhouse-alternative lives makes her have to hold in a small keen of joy, makes her stomach perform teeny flips, suck in a breath, and want to look at the world a little brighter.

Just last night, Peter arrived home much later than usual. It had been around two in the morning when he crept back inside, and to his luck everyone had been asleep. Had Marya heard the front door open he would have received an earful, though it will have to wait until morning. The house had been ominously silent, a single bulb of the living room lamp the only source of light besides his sisters' nightlights. He tiptoed passed his aunt asleep in a reclined armchair. She had stayed awake for him until passing out to the local station. She had been watching the late night news. Peter swallows, a green worm if guilt forming in his gut; he knew she had been watching because of him. Without making much noise, he speeds to find a spare blanket to lay over her, covering her bare feet.

Peter doesn't speak to anyone that weekend but remains in his basement bedroom room.

Wanda did wake the night he snuck in, by some intuition-like feeling that woke her from her sleep. She heard the front door and tiptoed downstairs to see her brother laying a quilt over their sleeping aunt. He catches her gaze as he turned, brows still knotted, and then he vanished and Wanda heard his basement bedroom door click closed. She immediately got a sullen feeling about him but thought it best to not question her brother for the rest of the night.

Throughout that weekend, Peter surround himself with Hostess snacks and ganja smoke, sneaking out every noon and nighttime to raid a local food mart when the munchies hit.

Wanda nor Marya dared disturb him. The tension from his room could be felt a mile away. The youngest Maximoff was the only one who dared, knocking and talking through the door without any luck.

Peter was surrounded by Hostess snacks, burger wrappers, smoke, and the realization that he was outsmarted by a spoiled, bossy Joanie all weekend.

The rest of the small family said their blessing around the table for dinner without their fourth member—Peter had snuck out the house by then anyways, knowing that dinner would do nothing to satisy his hunger. Little did they know that late that night when they slept, Peter snuck out again, but this time to raid a grocery store on the far side of town and spending the night venting to himself at a skate-park, the stolen class pin turning between his fingers.

 **. . .  
. . .**

It is now Monday. Sherbrooke High School and its students are back into the hustle and bustle of social life. Wanda is still daydreaming and on cloud nine. Meisha, on the other hand...has become more quiet than usual.

Meisha moves silently and keeps to herself—not like that is _unusual_ behavior for her. She's a weird one, and is considered a _freak_ throughout the school—this behavior shouldn't be a surprise from her. It _isn't_ expected for her to be as agitated and fidgeting as she is now, and to have her hair up in a braided bun.

Meisha keeps her gaze to the floor and rubs her arms in an attempt of self-comfort. Her eyes hold a hint of redness around the rims from earlier that morning, and her gaze darts through the crowded hallway. Her grip on the strap of her schoolbag tightens and she speeds ahead, hoping to make it to her class and assigned seat as soon as possible.

Sherbrooke is a large school and just _somehow_ Meisha is going to get stopped, she just _knows_. And she does, by Peter calling her from the water fountain, and then for a split second Meisha looks like a deer in headlights.

Peter jogs at normal speed to meet her. He's smiling, per usual, and is in a peculiarly good mood.

Meisha wishes she could be as carefree.

She forces a smile anyway.

Peter is going on again, she sees, blabbering about something Meisha doesn't have the energy or patience to try to decipher. Her eyes drift over to a point just past his head—dark hair tossing over a shoulder, flushed, pale skin, the ring of a laugh faintly drifting through the crowds. It's Mckenzie Shabotz approaching with Clarice Wilhelm and another girl a part of The Bees popular clique. Meisha almost glares.

Her vision swims back into view, Peter snapping his fingers in front of her and calling her name. She jumps, forces another smile to his now questioning raised eyebrow.

"Are you ok? You don't look like you are getting enough sleep. Did you—-"

"Don't feel good. I'm just tired." She interrupts, rubbing her eyes.

Peter nods. "For a second there you looked like you were on that _good_ _stuff,_ " he chuckles. "You look it—-you look tired. What's going on with you?"

She shrugs, a slow move in Peter's rapid mindset. A bitter response comes to her mind but Meisha clamps her lips just before it slips out. She looks back behind Peter's shoulder, watching the aforementioned popular girls that everyone dislikes, turn and walk away in their Steve Madden shoes.

"I just don't feel good," Meisha informs, tries to slip away to walk away, lying again.

"You said that already."

"I thought I said I was tired."

He given a look that reads _duh_. "So? Same thing."

Meisha rolls her eyes.

Ronny meets up seconds later. He usually wears a frown of his own that makes him look like one of the most miserable teens on the planet, something Peter have pointed out before and teased. Meisha and Peter are one of the few who could differentiate Ronny's neutral resting sour face from when he is truly bothered. All three have known each other long enough, after all.

It is maybe forty-one minutes until the first bell will ring.

The three walk pass the turn that leads to Wanda in her first class, spirits lifted over Troy, while in a nearby classroom a few popular kids gossiped negatively about the ordeal.

"Hey, Ronny," Peter nudges the other with an elbow. Ronny towers over him by maybe five inches. "Meisha's been acting weird. You know anything about it? What's up with her?" He takes out and resumes finishing a half eaten sandwich from a pocket in his bookbag. He tried to always keep snacks with him.

Ronny shrugs, an expected response. Both continued trailing behind the redhead but don't both lowering he volume of their voices, speaking in a manner as if she isn't there. The warm, effervescent start of anger begins in her stomach like she's drank over-heated soda.

"I don't know but her hair's all up. Weird." Ronny's hand gestures around his own short hair. He's speaking about the change in her hairstyle.

Peter nods. "I know. Man, do you think she's on her period?"

"I don't know." Ronny leans forward to ask, "Meisha, are you on your period?"

She turns around at a speed that would have given each a hard _slap_ with her hair if it had been loose. " _No_!" Her shout causes several others to stop and glance. "No," she repeats a tad softer. "I'm fine. Just...leave me alone today, guys."

Peter chews another bite of his sandwich. "Dude, I think she's lying," he whispers loudly to Ronny.

Ronny shushes him and keeps quiet, but neither does as the girl orders and follows her further through the crowd in the hall. They pass Ronny's classroom. They have maybe twenty-six minutes until school starts for the day. Peter two bites remaining of his sandwich when Meisha whirls around again, this time catching herself before yelling.

"Guys, _l_ _eave me alone_ for today. ... _Please_."

Peter inhales the rest of his sandwich and Ronny keeps his hands in his pockets. His eyes narrow. "Are you okay, Meisha?"

"I said—-"

"Are you _sure_ you're _okay_?" Ronny's eyes squint. "Why do you have your hair up?" he points with his chin to the braid hairstyle they've never seen before. Meisha's mutation is very sensitive and concerning, and having her hair this constrained doesn't sit well with Ronny.

Her hand automatically raise to her bun. "Why…?"

"You never put your hair up—-"

"So?" Peter interjects with a mocking tone.

"What I do with my hair is my business."

Ronny rocks back on his heels. "Are you _sure_...?"

"Now that you mentioned it," Peter begins, circling around his friend once, much to her annoyance. "There _is_ something different about her..."

Meisha always caters to her hair in a careful manner, for herself as well as for the safety of others around her. She braids it to keep it tamed. Opposed to how she always has it hanging and mildly untethered; to have it up was constricting and was a flag of wary. She _never_ puts it up, only in a single braid or a ponytail for sports—sports that she doesn't voluntarily participate in.

Peter stops circling Meisha to stand at her side. Her light brown eyes follow him and when he stops, he watches them widen. He _stares_ , and stares, and Meisha swallows because her throat is drying, and he stares, and he stares, and he stares—

The bell rings and Ronny waves in departure. Peter waves back with another smile but this time Meisha knows that it is fake. They ignore the rushing of students around them. Peter turns back to her stone-faced and serious. Then when he steps closer, Meisha unconsciously holds her breath, her heart racing.

Peter grabs at her hairline above her neck that is practically covered by her large bun, a hair-trick she had hoped to pull off. Evidently she failed. To a bystander, it looks like he suddenly grabs her at the nape of her neck—Meisha jumps and freezes when he does, a lone shiver running up her spine.

"What," Peter's hand brushes across her red hair on her neck, "is _this_?!"

Meisha's heart returns to normal but she can't meet her friend's eye. Hers lower instead.

"It's nothing." Her voice holds a certain sternness that is unintentional and surprises even her. She hadn't wanted anyone to find out, had been so careful about it...

"This—" there is no denying he could _not_ feel the cut of her hair, "—is not _nothing_."

Meisha cut her hair three times since that day she cried alone in her bedroom. Since then, the voice returned twice, the second time had been worse to where she felt like she had to clip twice as much of hair.

All along the under-back of her hair, it is grazed unevenly, like a toddler haven taken a pair of scissors to it. It was damage Meisha had hoped to keep hidden, and she feels too uncomfortable and unstable to have her hair down and loose. So, a bun was the way to go. It all had worked up to this point.

Most of the rush of students have streamed out, rushing to their classes. It wasn't desirably to be caught tardy. Especially if it was by the assistant principal who frequently patrolled the hallways. The hall monitors are stepping up their game and no one wanted one of the pink slips.

Peter's hand slides to her shoulder. "How long ago was this?"

He and Ronny know how sensitive her hair is, so in his mind, this is the same as self harm. It is _exactly_ the same.

Meisha smacks his hand away. "What do you care?"

"What kind of question is that?!"

Meisha sucks in a breath. Memories flash of the three of them playing trivia weeks ago, of the he he made with Ronny, of hearing Peter _gush_ about Mckenzie and Rainy... An urge returns inside Meisha, an ugly urge that makes her want to cause harm and possibly wounds and blood. It's a small urge and she pushes it aside to the back of her conscious. She never thought she would have it _here_ , to have the voice peeking from behind it's iron curtain restraints she thought she perfected, or at _school_ , and much less in front of her _friend_.

Meisha's mood switches. Her eyes begin to water, her throat tightens, and she suddenly she's bolting down the hallway. If she had her hair loose, it would have attacked Peter, she just knew.

"Just leave me alone!" was her final call as she runs to her class, leaving Peter with the few stragglers in the hall.

He takes a moment to try and piece together what had just happened. He throws his hands up in defeat and frustration. " _What the hell was that?!_ "

 **. . .  
. . .**

Mr. Moore was employed as the school's football coach. He was critical, stern, and strict. Students avoided his eye, feared when his pale, pink face would blush red when he's angered, would silently pray for mercy when they could hear his hollers from the football field. Moore had once been a coach to the school's football team many years ago. Now, retired from sports with a diagnosis of high blood pressure and stress, the man spends his days teaching as his wrinkles deepen and he came to accept that his hair would never truly grow back. Moore is the English teacher that taught Rainy's third period class in the early afternoon, and for today, he reads the class the directions of the upcoming major assignment: of a book they would be assigned to read in the very near future. He had been talking about that book for weeks now to prep them, but still he has yet yet to give out copies. Instead, he instructs them to complete the review questions in the textbook.

Moore is notorious for giving mediocre work to fill time, and that is really the only thing students calculated they need to ace to pass the class. Rainy knows it would be a matter of time until there is another big assignment he will assign. He always adds more work even though there was one previously warned. She just wonders what it would be about now—she needs something new to occupy her time with, and watches her pencil twirl between her fingertips and wonders when she might have chipped her forefinger's nail.

"I don't recommend trying to read this in the week before your assignment is due," Moore warns, holding up one of the paperback copies in the air.

Someone snickers. Rainy's eyes dart in the general direction.

"Is something _funny_?" Moore has a voice that is both gruff and calm, but that could become a sonorous thunderstorm, and that somehow, oddly, it compliments his large physique and personality.

Rainy isn't surprised when Moore first told that he is now a grandfather. It had been in the beginning of the school year when everyone was to tell one fact about themselves.

"Now as I was _saying_ ," Moore continues, electric blue eyes sweeping the room. "You're assignment is _due_ on the twenty-eighth. That is over two months away."

Collected groans resonate from the students.

" _But_ ," he interrupts, not finished, baritone voice easily overpowering theirs, "starting tomorrow, we'll be reading it every day you come to class as a way to pass time."

At the other side of the classroom, Peter's attention tunes back it.

"So I _don't_ recommend skipping class either. Because even if you have a _doctor's_ _appointment_ , you'd better not expect the whole class to _wait_ until you come back or to go and reread a _whole chapter_ just because you didn't _feel_ like coming to class that day. It's up to _you_ to keep up and catch up on your own spare time if you miss any."

Rainy wiggles her pencil between her palms.

"But for today, you're going to do the review questions on page 394 that go with the short story before it." Moore sets the small paperback book back on his desk behind him. He does all of his instructing at the podium at the front of the room.

"Can't we have a day to rest before we start that book? You even said so that it was difficult."

Rainy knows that it is Sherry who raises her hand and asks that laughable question. She doesn't have look up and over at strawberry blonde who sits in the neighboring desk aligned diagonal to hers.

Mr. Moore forces a smile. "Miss Addams...there are people in the world who would _beg_ to learn to read and get an education." He then tells in a discreet, sugar-coated sentence that what she asked was _idiotic_.

Today's book-work is another partnering assignment. It isn't _mandatory_ , but several considered it the smart option to not work alone, therefore, only needing to exert half of the effort. Sherry, way too embarrassed, didn't bother asking Rainy, her face still a brush of pink and her nose close ducking into the pages of her textbook, as she is far too ashamed to even ask for help. Rainy, however, could go either way. She's two pages into the assigned reading when a chair pulls up at the front of desk. She doesn't look up, guessing who, and is _certain_ of her prediction when a boot clunks to rest beside her on her chair, trapping her to her desk.

Across from her, Peter smirks.

Rainy doesn't look up.

He remains silent, watching her continue reading, tries to decipher her body language as she underlines a sentence with a pencil. She places it back aligning her textbook returns to following the lines of text with a finger. He watches and tries to understand her with a frown and his arms crossed.

Rainy's facial expressions seldom, if ever change or alter or become the slightest askew. There may be an occasional twitch or involuntary wrinkle of her nose. One can easily see how monotone she really is, if paid enough attention, about how placid and stolid she really is. And this frustrated Peter greatly.

TASTELESS

Rainy Capulet is tranquil, untroubled, and tasteless. Peter wonders just _how_ had he been out-conned by someone like _her_.

The mutant leans forward to rest his elbows in front of her textbook, folding his hands under his chin. He opens his mouth and—

"What?"

She beats him to it.

His jaw snaps shut. "Well—-"

"If you're here to try and intimidate me or bribe me into doing something incredibly stupid again, or to be wasteful with whatever you _know_ is foolish, I already have what I want so the answer is _no_."

Peter's jaw snaps close again and he scowls.

"There's something called _common courtesy_ when you meet someone and when you two talk. You might have heard of it? It's also how conversations start and _last_. I go, saying something, and then _you_ talk. See, _ignoramus_?"

This time, Rainy does look up at him but it appears as a glare. By now, he isn't sure if her looks are on purpose or not. He notices the locket dangling above her black shirt beneath her jean jacket and he shifts.

"There is also something that kills those attempts at conversations, such as secrets, hostility, and blackmail." Her tone lowers. "Those are bargains, not conversations. You've got to learn when to spy a conman from a mile away, Maximoff."

Peter's brows rise, amused that she remembers his name. "So the girl who has no memory wants to grill me on how _she_ remembers to how to spy a conman?" he teases, then mocks, "it's not like _you'd_ seen one."

Rainy continues flipping through the story in the textbook, periodically writing an answer on her paper. "What makes you say that?"

"Because someone spitting lies just wants attention. Bad girls should know that stories don't fix their fake personalities."

If Rainy could feel, she would have been offended and would have scoffed. "And what makes you think that you know everyone?"

"Easy. You're some prissy, spoiled doll who probably has Daddy eating out the palm of your hand."

"Is that it?"

"And you call people beligiment, rusty condoms."

"Wrong." She still doesn't look up. "I only said you were jaunty, have feet like rocks, and a delinquent. All of that other stuff you said yourself. But if the shoe fits..."

He fumes. "Yeah, but whose to say I won't just _take_ your little trinket back?" He gestures toward the golden heart hanging from her neck.

Now she looks up, and stares his straight in the eyes. "Then I'll file charges of harassment."

"And if I tell you not to say anything—-"

"A restraining order."

He's not exactly stunned but she does trip up the comebacks he had lined up. So now he stares aggressively, scowling deeper and folding his arms tightly across his chest. His goggles sit firmly on his forehead, and his ripped jeans show scarred knees.

She looks to her side. "Sherry," she calls softly to the other who had grown awfully silent and still, her pencil having stopped moving since this little banter begun. "Is there something you wanted to say?"

There's a beat of silence, of a hesitation and regret in the air. Sherry resumes writing, tuning out.

Rainy turns back to the mutant before her. "This has been amusing, Maximoff, but some of us don't want to stoop low enough to get all friendly with people of your social rank. You specifically, are just troublesome and would have a price on your butt before many others here. I've gotten one of the highest scores on the RET, one of the top ten. I cannot stoop to your level." She is as undisturbed and emotionless as ever yet her words stung.

"Yeah, because you have nothing else to do besides study." Peter mutters under his breath but loud enough that she'd hear.

The RET tests are a set of tests students set up by the State county. Students will have to take a number of them throughout their grade school years, the scores influencing what colleges will gauge on which applications to accept.

Finishing the assignment, Rainy moves in her desk chair to leave but stops, as Peter's foot is still in the way, keeping her there. Again, she stares him in the eye and orders, "move."

"What's it gonna take to get you to agree?" A tiny smile threatens to grow.

"Like I said: when hell freezes over."

His smirk disappears. "I'm serious." He drums a finger on her desk, suddenly quieting. "Listen. ...You got your necklace back, and I'm just asking a question. Plus you're the smartest girl here—as you said. So no one needs to know about the three math quizzes you've flunked, right?"

He's blackmailing her.

She would have narrowed her eyes, but she only blinks, unfazed. "Who told you that?"

He crosses his arms behind his head. "Well _this_ little geek has a connection or two. That's all you need to know." And he winks. "I can't believe it. Math is so easy!" Then he chuckles, not even trying to hide his mumbled, "so called _smartass._ "

"And don't forget that I haven't told anyone about your private matters," she reminds him about his little secret she keeps. "You owe me that much. A deal for a deal." She holds up a finger.

Peter feels a tug at the corners of his mouth. He likes the way she thought. He's _intrigued_ , dare he'd think so. "Alright. Then, in that case, you _owe_ me that bargain. Back in the library?"

Rainy's stare is intense. "No."

"Aw why not? You owe me _that_ much!" He's whining.

Rainy's calm exterior doesn't change.

"What's it gonna take? I just need that _one_ essay! You want me to get down and beg?"

"Well..."

"Forget it! I'm not doing that!"

He's a bit louder than intended. Students near are still working on the in-class assignment. Mr. Moore plays soft classical music at a low volume for the class; he is minding his own business at the front of the class, nose in a mystery novel.

Peter glances at his own hands. He can practically _feel_ Rainy's undiverging gaze. She just stares and stares and stares.

But who is he kidding? This is all just a ploy, a feeding to his self-confidence. There was no real need to be bouncing back and forth like this—there's no need for _her_ , elect to satisfy himself and his ego. Because here's one of the smartest girls—the impalpable, impassive, _intense_ and _indestructible_ Rainy Capulet—who he seems to keep running into, and after Wanda told him that she's heard of Rainy's failing quizzes, Peter suspected, _hoped_ he would gain some leverage.

All this banter is redundant...

But really, who is he kidding? He's attacking her with no plan, a barely sound bargain, and no retreat strategy. He's desperate, he knows, a ever since Marya saw his progress report. And if Rainy doesn't help him...

"Alright." He runs his hands down his face. He's tired, emotionally. He can't argue with her, he realizes. It's like arguing with a lizard, a reptile; she's truly emotionless, he realizes. "Look, I'm being serious about this. About that deal. I...can you...I need...can you, _please_ , uh..."

"Don't strain yourself."

He glares. Pauses. Sifts through his words. Takes a breath. "I won't say anything if you help me get an A on this essay."

"You've _got_ to be kidding me..." That was it? He appeared like he had been preparing to confess something dire. Was he just too pitiful to do the essay himself all along?

Peter knows how important reputation is taken throughout the students in this school and Rainy would undoubtedly refuse to be _seen_ much with someone of _his_ low social status. But under these circumstances, blackmailing each other, what did they have to lose?

"You've got nothing to do anyway. You know, with you having no—-"

"Fine," she cuts him off. "Alright, geek." She returns her textbook and notebook to her book bag, reading the clock on the wall that the bell will ring signaling the end of this class period. "But there are some regulations that are in need to be established. And don't think I'm doing this out of my own free will."

Peter shows a shit-eating smile.

He gets in trouble after class for not doing the assignment.

 **. . .  
. . .**

It had been in science lab the next time Sherry sees the girl at the pinnacle of the popular crowd, the two crowned Bees. She also immensely disappointed finding out she will now be sharing the same class with them for the rest of the school year, and ever since arriving, Mckenzie and Clarice wouldn't shut up. Today, they sit behind her, since Sherry's assigned seat is towards the back of class where the two decided to make room. Both bullies have been going on and on about Sherry, but in such a nonchalant manner that it could pass as casual talk.

"Ugh, I can't see anything behind this _bush_!" Clarice complains about Sherry's hair that she decided to curl this morning. Both girls could, indeed, see perfectly fine over the strawberry blonde.

"I know. It's a mess, isn't it?"

"How could anyone let their self get that way?" There is a small pop behind Sherry, something being uncapped. "Oh, by the way, did you hear of that band girl who fell on her face last week during the performance? Well, apparently now she was caught _shirtless_ in the locker rooms with _another guy_ ," The Bee snickers.

The bullies laugh cruelly and Sherry stares miserably towards the teacher at the front of the room, doing her best to take notes. But the two grow steadily louder behind her. They are no longer whispering.

"Ugh! I can't _stand_ this teacher. I just wanna snatch that wig _right off_ her head. It's so ugly. Can't understand a single word she's saying either."

"Me either," Clarice agrees like a trailing puppy dog.

"Well, maybe if you _shut your pie holes_ for a single _minute_ , you might actually learn something," Sherry hisses, not daring meet the face to face.

Because they grow silent. The air thins. Sherry's heart begins to race.

"Um, who asked _you_?"

"Why don't _you_ shut up when people _aren't talking_ to you because no one _cares_ about what you have to say." Mckenzie then begins to brag about how she and Clarice are trying to understand the teacher's lesson.

Sherry gapes, spinning around. "You don't care what the teacher says! You just said so!"

"What do _you_ know?" Clarice scoffs, intent on playing the innocent.

"I think she's trying to be smarter than us," Mckenzie tells. "You remember that they even did tests and monkeys can _never_ be as smart as people."

Stunned, Sherry turns back around in her chair. Adrenaline produced by anger makes her blood rush, stimulates her limbs, her ears roar.

"Oh yeah! I remember that!" Clarice leans forward to Sherry, trying to get in her face. "You hear that, _monkey_? You better listen to us or you won't be getting any bananas today." She smiles. And it's taunting and it's harrowing and it's irksome, very irksome.

"Yeah, we might just lock you back in your cage where you belong."

That day, Sherry was sent to the dean's office due to a loud outburst during class. The teacher had written a referral for disturbance and when Sherry arrived, her eyes were flowing from tears of rage. She explained her story, and her referral is waved.

 _Suck it up, they're just words_ , they said.

 _Sticks and stones will break my bones  
but names will "never" hurt me_

Sherry is usually an optimistic person. That did nothing to lessen her anger.


	16. 13: icy (Episode 6)

It's currently a Wednesday afternoon, and Mr. Moore is sitting on his desk reading aloud from small paperback book to the class. The students are to follow along in their own copies that are passed out at the beginning of every class, and then thrown back in the bin on their way out the door. Notes are passed in-between the teacher's glances. Those by the windows peer outside, silently witnessing a nerd bullied by two taller young men. A good portion of the class keep attention. It isn't _their_ fault that _Great Expectations_ isn't particularly the most _catching_ novel to have been written. Or, that their thoughts are wrapped up in upcoming plans.

Peter swings his legs rapidly under his desk. His chin rests on his folded arms and his novel copy is open in front of him. Like the others, he is daydreaming, though that isn't something that's new for him. Mr. Moore's voice rumbles at a pace too slow for his interest and therefore drifts above his head.

Peter has trouble concentrating when it comes to books. Especially if the someone who is reading likes to enunciate every letter.

When he had been younger, Marya used to read to him and Wanda. He's always had trouble concentrating and never was able to sit still. Unfortunately, when his powers came in, the story times slowed to a halt. (But then it was also because Marya had to work more and he was getting older anyhow and his mutation and surveying Wanda...) The world passes by at such a slow pace that sometimes he just _can't_ listen.

But it's not like he could _tell_ his teacher.

Peter glares at the head of brown hair seated in front of him.

He's definitely still upset, and try as he might, his glare doesn't burn into Rainy's back no matter how much intensity he applies. Well, she _would_ have felt it, probably, if she _could_ feel, he remembers. He shivers once.

He wonders if he kicks his feet far enough, maybe, somehow if he gets her attention, she would see him and—

Rainy follows along with her teacher's voice, finger under each word he speaks. To her, this—school, reading, socializing, eating, _everything_ —is merely just a past time, not something she enjoys. She knows she should, and practices facial expressions in the mirror and has a schedule when she has to eat and get to bed, and take her pills before her menstrual.

Peter glares holes in the back of her jean jacket.

 _"What's the deal with you and that Rainy girl?" Wanda had asked.  
_

 _"What do you know about that," Peter all but glared at his twin from over the back of the couch._

 _Wanda gave him a look and he wasn't expecting an answer anyway._

 _He didn't want to know how she knew whom he had been recently speaking to._

 _Wanda can find out, know all your secrets easily._  
She has the ability to see all the things you try to hide,  
all of your fears,  
all your dreams late at night

 _MAGIC_

 _But it's not like she would tell you that fact.  
_

 _Wanda pulled a paper from her bookbag. "Is this what you were wanting?"_  
It's a graded math test. A large 46 written and circled in red at the top—  
It's _Rainy's._

MAGIC

 _Peter grinned. "Perfect."_

He kicks his feet under his desk. Moore's voice drifts over his head, and the teen suddenly remembers the stolen math test stuffed somewhere in his backpack. He continues glaring daggers at the girl seated in front of him.

 ** _. . .  
_** ** _. . ._**

Earlier that day he confronts Rainy again, feeling cheated, jipped. And she brushes him off easily, as if he is a spect of dust, giving the same penetrating and haunting stare and fire spat from her lips.

But Peter is determined. He hadn't felt _betrayed_ by her lies spoken merely days ago; he just feels like he hadn't get his _share_ , his penance. Really, this is one of those few times he had been tricked out of his own con and he is taking it quite bitterly.

"Give me one good reason why I should help you?" she questions.

Her eye contact that she holds so steady sometimes sets him on edge.

Rainy then leans into her left hand, begins to muse aloud. "I should have you taken care of you after all..."

She knows people, Peter was already aware, she has connections in and off school grounds which made crossing her a daring concept—to Peter, a _challenge_. She knows those on both basketball teams, knows the star football player, and Rainy is quite popular herself. It wouldn't be a problem to make his life even more problematic and a living hell because people here _love_ gossip, they thrive off of the drama and unfortunate and speculation of others. And Rainy's father holds a high and very influencing position too, and yet...

And yet Peter continues.

Because he too knows too much, Rainy is fully aware. He _knows_. She had given it away long ago.

FLASHBACK

 _It was five weeks ago Rainy told him her most tightly kept secret._

PRECISE

BLUNT

CUTTER

 _blurted it out_

 _in poor calculation_

 _Rainy Capulet_

Peter knows way too much about her and he's aware that there is nothing she can do about it. And he uses this as leverage against her.

He knows that she could do nothing

He _does_ used it, leaning over her shoulder and threatening in her ear as the teacher reads aloud in the classroom. Peter gets called out for it, of course, but he doesn't care. He merely smiles defiantly at his punishment.

Spirit Week would be upon them in a month and everyone is prepping for it, albeit earlier than the year before. Apparently there is a party planned the weekend of at the house of Clarice's current boyfriend's house.

Everyone is excited for it, per usual.

A week passes.

Rainy isn't spoken to again.

Peter gets detention for the rest of that week. Marya is furious, disappointed, and quiet.

Rainy is sent to the hospital after a defiant dispute at home with another " _guest_." Her mother shows her regret in remaining near her daughter and trying to be helpful. Rainy brushes her off, telling that she "doesn't need a handmaiden," looking away and with a demeaning roll of the eyes. "You're supposed to be my mother, not a best friend that I spill all my secrets to." Her mother is hurt, to state it gently.

A week passes and the walls of the school are decorated in the school's colors. Students are starting to wear their school T-shirts and merchandise. And Rainy had been no exception, Sherry and Michelle taking charge of her wardrobe now.

Wanda walks the hallways to her next class or to her locker and will exchange small smiles with Troy. She smiles and a blush creeps up her neck, and Peter will watch with a judging glare.

This smile—that smile is something that is rarely seen on his twin, and knowing the others that are also enrolled, it probably wouldn't end the way Wanda probably hopes.

Even at home, Peter can tell that there starts to be a noticeable _change_ in his sister's behavior—he catches on way before Marya does but doesn't speak about it. Wanda's mood is improving positively and that is side of her is something haven't been displayed in a long time. Usually Wanda would hole herself up in her room, red hood drawn over her head in public and she would speak in shy mumbles. Negative vibes would seep from her and she always handles herself awkwardly in public, like she is never sure, far too cautious.

 _She has right reason to be_ —

But as Peter sits on the living room carpet, letting his younger sister wrap as many ponytails as she can fit in his hair and the television playing the daily soap opera episode, he notices when Wanda skips in the door and her mood isn't as negative as they are so used to.

She hasn't had any accidents either—not like she usually does with her powers—but Peter doesn't know if Wanda is just getting better at _hiding_ her abilities or if she is improving at controlling them. He wants to ask her, watching her out the corner of his eyes, but doesn't. He isn't sure if he should. And so he doesn't.

 _Wanda wouldn't have known the answer herself._

But lately, she _is_ getting better, and he takes this opportunity to instead ask his sister for a small favor. At the end of last week, he had asked her with a wide, mischievous smirk, one that Wanda has seen far too many times and knows its sign that he is up to no good.

That favor is how he got a hold of Rainy's failed test. Which is what he had waved in front of the girl's face after following her into the library after school, and is what made her eyes look from the paper to his cheeky grin back then.

 _"How'd you get that?"_ she had asked.

 _Peter's smirk was troublesome. "I have my ways,"_ was all he gave. _"You don't get to make the demands this time. It's all me," pointed his finger to himself and then a thumb to his chest. "Alright, Juliet?"_

He and Wanda have attained many skills before their abilities emerged, and pickpocketing was one of their best.

Marya too could con a man out of his lifesavings in ten minutes or less if she wishes. Making fake IDs, knowing how to bargain the manager of a mart—thanks to Peter's misdemeanors—and how to get a small child to stop crying by threatening privileges and sweets are a few of her other skills gained over the years.

BLACK SCENE

Peter showing he had stolen Rainy's failed math test is the reason they were in the library today. Rainy had refused to sit next to him and so both are sitting back to back at separate tables. She reads from the novel she's borrowed. It sits open before. She communicates without lifting her eyes from the pages. Only now, when he waves in the air her test does she turn around. And Peter is growing _irritated_ as the minutes tick by.

The reason why they are in this incongruent arrangement is because Rainy tells that she doesn't wish to be seen, not wanting to be spotted by an associate from school which can affect both of their reputations. It would only lead to a downward slope, she had given the unnecessary explanation earlier when she still wouldn't look him in the eye.

Now, however—

"To be seen with someone like you would put a target mark on both of us. _'Rainy seen with the grey-haired loser'_ ," she holds out her hands, imitating reading the phrase on a billboard. Her hands lower back to her book and the tabletop. "Just because I don't go around putting myself willingly out to the public, you mistake that I'd actually take my time to speak to just anyone who shows up?" It is less of a question.

"Don't _you_? That's what you did to me."

Not exactly what she meant

"I recall. And it's so unfortunate." Rainy places her book, pages down, and leans her head back, her brown hair hanging over the back of the chair and she catches his gaze upside down. He's scowling again. He does that often. "I suspect that you trust too much, Maximoff."

Peter is confused; he admits this out loud.

"Given that you even came back proves my answer. If you truly didn't believe that I was going to help you, then you wouldn't even be here, knowing that I'd just assume to forget about it and that I was actually merely using that as a diversion. But since you are sitting here right now shows that you really do trust everyone, and that's a terrible flaw to have. And that you're still here proves how desperate you are."

Well _that_ didn't burn _at all_.

He has a strong initial reaction to get up and walk out. Instead, he applies faux confidence and shrugs his shoulders. "So yeah? I'm kind of desperate. _Kind of_. Not really. So what? But don't you _dare_ get the wrong idea, chick. Don't forget who's holding the upper hand here."

Her look of course is impassive and unimpressed. "Kinda..." Rainy repeats the word slowly as if tasting it. She sits up, tilts her head forward, back down at the tabletop. "Do you trust everyone so easily? Is that why you go around so freely, throwing yourself out there for everyone? I'm curious." She looks at him from the corner of her eye.

There is a librarian loading books into a cart in a nearby aisle. She's quite pretty and has her brown hair in a short cut. Rainy wonders to herself why Peter doesn't go and bother _that_ woman instead, that is he _this_ deserpate about some essay? She's definitely pretty enough for the attention... But Rainy doesn't know; she wonders what he must be feeling—panic? Fear. Anxiety? Dread? Or just pure laziness? She can barely remember what those emotions felt like herself.

Rainy's response makes Peter pause. To be honest, he never thought about that before. "Why're you making it sound like I'm some kind of whore?"

Rainy raises a hand to her mouth, feigning surprise. "Are you not?"

He hisses and Rainy turns her cheek the other way. She would have laughed if otherwise.

"That was a joke."

"You're terrible at jokes. All of them are terrible."

Her head tilts slightly to the side. "Well that's a given." She then raises to her knees in the hard wooden chair and turns fully around, wrapping her legs around the back of the chair and facing him. Her hand darts out for his hair but she stops, never actually touching him. Her finger points. "Do not take me for a fool, Maximoff. I am not doing this out of my own free will. I am not here sitting with you right now because I absolutely want to. I would rather lower myself in a tank full of sharks than be here with someone of your status. Every second the clock ticks is another second that I could be using my time for things elsewhere. Just because I made the mistake of telling you my private detail those weeks ago means nothing. It doesn't give you free range and you only have a false illusion that you actually have the leg-up on my life. Make sure I am not wasting my time here, alright? I am not someone you want to go around socializing with."

He thinks her eyes blaze. He only imagines it.

His vision spins, spacing out for a second.

How can she turn so quickly?

"Why not?"

"That is none of your concern."

"So you speak something that somehow makes you some _bad guy_ , and you won't say _how_? That's not how it works, babe. That's not how _any_ of this works! We had a _deal_ , see? And the best you can do is say _why_. Just because you're some kind of _popular girl_ at school doesn't mean—-"

"I am not someone you should socialize with," she repeats. "And I'm not here to accommodate for your bargaining—like all those other geeks. So do not take my kindness for invitation for your lifestyle. If you so much as try to, I'll just have to finish that slice with my boxcutter as I was planning to make."

His tongue runs over his chapped lips. She doesn't know it, but Rainy will never be quick enough to actually accomplish that threat.

His eyes narrow further. "Is that a _threat_?"

"A threat is relative. Such as someone pointing a gun at your head," Rainy holds her index finger in the air, imitating the weapon. "Or that you didn't like a someone's comment and took it the wrong way upon yourself, whining to your mother like some illigitament bastard baby. In many ways threats're like someone calling wolf—have you ever thought of that? It's a pitiful cry made for desperate attention. For faux confidence. An accommodation for something mostly." She looks at him, not a muscle showing emotion.

"Mostly. Not always," he adds.

"This is true—-"

"Because one: I don't care how much you talk or how _smart_ you make your words sound, _you're_ wrong. One: I'm _not_ like some _other geek_ , alright? I'm _much_ cooler than them." He begins counting on his fingers. "Two: there is no faux confidence here, babe. All this is real."

The librarian finishes shelving, and begins pushing the empty cart away and out of sight.

"Are you desperate for attention too, Maximoff? Is that why you're here?" She blinks.

Peter hesitates, so many words and answers running through his brain but none that seems like the right thing to say, so he holds his tongue.

Rainy blinks. "Tell the truth—why are you here? It's obvious that someone like you doesn't enjoy the time you spend with me. We aren't compatible. We aren't friends. We're on different planes of the spectrum—a freak and—well...someone like me..." She stares. It reminds Peter of a snake, a waiting reptile. "Is it not true that you came to me, hoping in some way that you could use me to your advantage and have a better face throughout school?"

Well, _sure_ that would be an ideal outcome and all of that is partially true, but—

"I did not take you for a complete fool, Maximoff. Well, I hoped that you weren't. I prefer not to waste my time on idiots. But pulling a move like that just might actually prove my suspicions wrong for once..."

"I don't give a damn about your suspicions, you icy betty. I only came for one thing and you know it."

An elderly man nearby over hears the boy's harsh whisper and gives Peter a dirty look which he overlooks.

Peter is persistent as always, reiterating that he is here only for her to keep up her end of the bargain since he kept his "fairly" and is here for nothing more. Of course, that too is partially a lie.

Rainy barks a laugh. It's dry and fake and the old man nearby glances up, concerned about the noise.

"Now I'm gonna ask you again." Peter waves the test in her face. He knows that Rainy has a brick-solid reputation of being faultless and brilliant in her academics. One false in that reputation would be a crack in the dam. "I can either let everyone at school know the failure you really are behind your lies, or—-"

"Or I help you with writing some essay, right?"

Peter halfway expects her to be angry, to have a frustrated look, a wrinkle across the bridge of her nose, a frown, _something_. But Rainy just sits there, turned toward him in the wooden chair, staring with such a relaxed exterior that he silently begins to question her sanity once again. He leans back in his seat.

"Well I will suppose..." She thinks. She stops. She considers. "It shouldn't be _too_ hard, for some like _you_ , anyway. I gather that you're smarter than most. It depends on what this essay entitles..."

"Say you just scribble me up something good, yeah?"

"It's not going to be that easy—-"

"Ah!" Peter holds up a finger. "I don't want to hear it. Just get it done, okay?"

"...Funny how you say I'm the failure here when you can't even so much as put together a convincing argument."

"Arguing isn't everything."

"Yes, because you're so clever and charming." Somehow bitterness sounds like it seeps into her voice, he thinks he hears. Then she outstretches her hand, her fingers curling in and out from her palm. "Let me see it."

Peter's eyes dart from her to the paper in his hand. "Why?"

She persists and he eventually hands the test to her just the same.

He watches her this time, ready to sprint if she decides to run again. And honestly, she does consider it but sees another opportunity instead.

"If I help you with this paper, it's the only way to get you out of my hair, correct?" He watches her fingers tap along the back of the page, its sound seeming so loud in the quiet library. "So," she continues cautiously, slowly, "what will I be getting out of this if I agree?"

He gapes. "What do you mean _'what will you get out of this'_?"

"Collateral."

It isn't something he's willing to negotiate.

"Oh goodness. If you're hard of hearing as you are about using your brain, this may be a real problem after all..." She leans on a fist propped on the desk.

"I can hear _just_ _fine_ , thanks," he spits. "You already got your half of the bargain." His finger points, accusing.

"Which is...?"

"You write this paper in exchange for that necklace I gave back to you!"

"Which you stole from me?"

"Yes!"

"That doesn't count. It doesn't work like that."

Peter drew his finger back slowly. "Huh?"

"You _stole_ my necklace when you were in detention. Did you honestly think you would trick me?"

Dammit! How could he forget?! He would have face palmed if he had been alone.

"Ok, now listen. Since there is no more leverage available for any of us."

Besides her failure

"And I honestly don't care whether you show that test around or not. They're just going to suggest you forged it."

Well...that _might_ be true...

"'ll help you write a well graded essay— _only_ if I get one request from you."

He frowns, hating where this had gone. "And what is that? You're not going to ask me to chop off my hand too so you can have it as a charm? No matter what you say, I still find use in this deal. You can't be that evil and cruel are you? And I'm _not_ dancing either. No pictures, no dares, nothing of the sort. I'm not really feeling this whole ordeal honestly..."

Rainy smirks—or tried to. She doesn't know, her cheeks are numb. "I'll let you know of my request when the time comes."

She had managed to lead the mutant on and is free for now. She makes a schedule of when they would meet up and begin this torture. She writes their next meeting date— _Tuesday, at 4:15 after school_ —on his arm with a scavenged blue pen. They were to meet again, but soon her father has a speaking to attend to. At school, both will continue to ignore the other as if they still are strangers.

Well, they still practically _are_.

Rainy doesn't necessarily dislike Peter, but his insisting is something she would rather choose not to listen to every weekday. But now she will have to persist through even more of it.

* * *

Mckenzie takes a drag from the cigarette, coughs, hacks. Her nose wrinkles. She's only done this once before.

She passes it off to Clarice lying in the second lawn chair. The blonde's look is unamused.

"Pussy." And she takes a drag with no problem.

Mckenzie coughs. "Am not."

"You sure about that?" The burnt edge glows, bobbing between the blonde's teeth.

It's a Saturday afternoon. The girls are in the viridian green, mowed backyard of Clarice Wilhelm's home.

Her mother is away at work. She had told them that she would be studying for an upcoming exam. She had already taken the exam with a passing 89 percent. Her mother will likely be back around nine that night. She does not know that Clarice has invited friends over.

In the backyard, the girls are dressed in short shorts, and bikini tops. Clarice is wearing a layer of sunscreen. A third girl apart of their clique lies at her other side, the girl, Abigail, and her boyfriend making use of the lawn chair together.

Clarice rolls over to them. "Hey! You two! Save it for the bedroom, will you? I actually _use_ these chairs and don't need your _fluids_ all over them."

They get into conversation that sways from future weekend plans, to bad talking teachers, to their fellow students.

"Oh yeah! And that little cum splot Cherry Addams. Did you hear that she was supposedly out on a date with Richard King down at Lou's Pizzeria? _Our_ Richie?!"

"Such a sorry little bitch." Clarice takes a slow drag from the cigarette.

In truth, Sherry had been at the pizzeria to pick up a delivery while her parent had been finishing a purchase in a nearby store. She ran into Richard inside the pizzeria waiting line.

"Another one of the losers trying to take one of our gang," Clarice sighs, sliding her sunglasses down onto her eyes.

"What do you mean _another one_?" Abigail asks. She and her boyfriend have separated form their tongue tangle. His arm remains around her waist.

Clarice flips her head over to her left, towards Mckenzie sipping on an impromptu mix of Coca-Cola and rum. "Do you want to tell her or should I?"

Mckenzie motions back to the blonde, indicating that she could herself.

" _Well_ ," she turns back to Abigail, sitting higher in her lawn chair. "That weirdo basketcase, Red Hood. You know? What's-her-name...? That girl who never talks but she's like...I don't know, you can just _tell_ she's _weird_? That one." Clarice then snaps, remembering an incident. "That girl I told you about who put peanut butter and sliced bananas on syrup-y pancakes. And then she added _Pixie Stix_ on top of it!"

Abigail shrugs, but knows who Clarice is talking about.

"Disgusting, right? So, found out by a little birdie that the little freakazoid has arranged to partner with _Troy Baxter_ for Spirit Week. Since it's coming up in a few weeks."

Abigail is wearing a mix of disgust and shock. Clarice laughs heartedly. It's as laughable as that grey-haired loser who insists on pairing with McKenzie, despite knowing she has a boyfriend.

By now, it isn't unknown throughout their clique about Peter's persistence. McKenzie takes a longer gulp from her glass, draining its contents.

" _Why_?"

Clarice shrugs. "I guess he likes those _weird ones_." She then takes several sips from her own alcoholic drink. She has a pink straw for her tall glass. "It's a shame though, knowing that he isn't really with her."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that's _he's not really 'with' her_." Clarice looks over the top of her sunglasses. "I had a talk with him yesterday because I too was curious. Had it right after science class where Cherry Addam's-Apple was more obnoxious than usual. I don't know if Troy ever knew about the weirdo's love for Pixie Stix, and I think that he might actually _like_ her." The blonde wears a look of slight concern, as the others around her. She admits that she doesn't know what to think about the situation, also thinking that it needs to be fixed.

Mckenzie speaks that they've "lost another one, haven't we?"

Abigail replies, "I sure as hell hope not. Didn't Joansie want him?"

"Yeah..." Clarice relaxes into the chair. She rolls her neck. "Well it looks like no one will." Pause. "I think I'll give him one more talk on Monday."

Two hours later, her mother will come home early. Clarice will hurriedly put out the stolen cigarettes she had been smoking and Abigail's boyfriend. She will dump the tall glasses of alcohol in a rose bush as her friends hop the fence and she hides the bottles of rum in a bush beside the backdoor. Clarice will respond to her mother as if everything had been fine, keeping a good distance as to not smell the alcohol. As Clarice manages to slink to her bedroom as her mother opens the refrigerator, she has a feeling that her daughter is acting impish.

To be more precise, she _sees_ that of her daughter. Because Ms. Wilhelm has an uncanny ability to read emotions, and can come very, very close to feeling a duplicate of other's and the tension around them. She has often adjusted the tension in the air when their two house cats begin to fight, changing it so that they cam once again. She has a suspicion that her daughter might have picked up on this _trick_.


	17. 14: intermission ii (Episode 6)

"Chin up. Straighten out your dress skirt. _Don't touch your hair_!"

Rainy slowly lowers her arm, staring back at her mother who is cautiously backing away with arms outstretched as if her daughter might fall over and disappear at any moment, or mess up her perfectly applied makeup and pressed wardrobe. Rainy stands before her mother; she's dressed her daughter who is standing in a formal dress, pantyhoes, and a frown on her face. Her mother then raises a fingernail between her teeth, smiling, and admiring her handiwork.

"Just...like... _that_. Stay _just._ Like _. That_." She then takes in her daughter's expression. "Oh, _smile_ for once!"

Rainy doesn't, and she isn't going to try to, knowing the grimace of a smile that she would force will be immediately noticed as fake. So it isn't exactly that she _didn't like_ the outfit—she is indifferent to it. "You still smell like marijuana, Mom."

The woman's brows rise. "Really? I haven't lit one since last night. I thought that spray would have gotten rid of the smell it by now..." The last part is spoken in a mumble.

The scent is in her clothes now, in her bedsheets, and a smidge in her curtains from when she sits on the windowsill and smokes when it rains. Also, it doesn't help that her father casually smokes when company is over, not turning down a cigarette when offered during the course of a business meeting.

Rainy's father needs her mother in her right mind for today, so Donna Capulet isn't to touch any substance for it might jeopardize her family and her life. And in the next few coming hours, it her current decisions will greatly influence their future.

Also, it helps that her skin tone is a very light brown. _A redbone_ , she used to be called when she was small. It was a nickname. _Redbone who lives down the street_. _Little Redbone with the pretty hazel eyes_.

Donna is a good mother—she cares for her husband and her daughter greatly. She is a happy young mother who used to shower her daughter in hugs and love, albeit sometimes with a thin joint in her mouth. But she cares, she does care. That much is true and obvious.

But to Rainy, her mother's actions are... _questionable_.

"Did you get your clothes from that room?" The room that serves are their guest room, especially for her mother's multiple "friends."

Her mother thinks before answering. "Yes."

"Try some of that perfume on your dresser."

"'K," her mother answers, smiling like a child and twirling to the door. She pauses. "But first, have you seen your father? Do you know if he's almost ready?"

Rainy shakes her head and turns to leave so her mother could finish dressing.

Rainy's father is to attend some sort of meeting for his campaign today, and for reasons Rainy never cared to listen for, she and her mother were to go with him. Probably for a face count. Probably for moral support. Probably to continue the illusion of an acceptable, the closest to a _perfect_ "colored" American family. Either way, she knows that the meeting—if that's even what it is they were going to this time, the one where they answer press again and smile and wave, smile and wave—regarding policies and other government things that are needed for a mayor election.

Rainy finds her father standing in front of the long body mirror near the door in her parents' bedroom. He is already dressed in a suit and polished shoes, she sees, peering around the corner of the doorway. He's looking in the mirror, adjusting his cufflinks and has a wide grin on his face. She's seen that look many times, and he only wears it whenever he attends to his mayor-business-duties, or when he is getting dressed to leave the house. He leaves the house either with other men with stale atmospheres, or to meet with a voice he hushes to over the phone. And Rainy would stay in her room or out of his way. She doesn't poke her nose where it doesn't belong, having done the opposite before and receiving dire consequences.

When Mr. Capulet notices his daughter, he turns with arms outstretched and poses. He's starting to wear that same stale grin as the other White men dressed in suits that he meets with.

"What do you think?" he asks, fond of his look.

He's excited, she can tell, she guesses.

Rainy pretends to contemplate his attire. "Looks clean."

"That's not what I meant. I look nice, right?" He chuckles. He becomes worried, honestly hoping for an approving word.

"Yes, you do look nice."

Rainy knows her tone was monotone and is what wipes the grin from her father's face. He takes a step forward and is preparing to question her on her flat attitude when his attention diverts to something above Rainy's head. She hears her mother's footsteps stop to stand right behind her. And then there is a growl—it's a mock feline growl directed towards her father.

"You look _hot~_!" Rainy's mother twists her hips to her husband, flipping his tie.

He slides his thumbs in his pockets, smiling down at his wife trailing her hand from his chest and wraps her arms around him from behind. They stare at their reflection, Donna peeking from behind, pressing her cheek to his shoulder blade. Their backs facing Rainy, she sees her mother's arms lowering, looping her thumbs around his belt and her husband biting his lip.

She whispers in her husband's ear, " _a_ _bsolutely_ _scrumptious_!"

Rainy watches. Thinks, _'_ _w_ _ho says "scrumptious" anymore?'_

The clock hanging in the living room ticks. It's to be 12 in the evening soon.

Her mother's arms tighten around her husband. Rainy can't see their reflection from her position. Her parents smile and Rainy leaves after hearing her father chuckle at her mother's poor seducing. Her mother plants wet kisses and her giggles are heard out into the hallway. Rainy leaves to her room and waits for them to finish dressing. She fingers the spine of a book on her nightstand. The title, author, and publisher are carved in deep grooves of gold. Rainy slides her finger across it, digs a fingernail into the words. She couldn't feel a thing.

 _ **. . .  
. . .**_

A woman carrying a clipboard motions the Capulet family forward. Rainy's mother nods to her daughter, silently directing to do as signaled, and all three follow the unnamed woman down a hallway. Portraits of passed people who held positions of power line the walls. There are a few framed flags, plaques. Rainy looks away from them and back to the path ahead.

The woman wears a smile when greeting them. Rainy doesn't care for it. Her father's is wider, and her mother keeps a stern expression.

They've all met this woman before, and have followed her to pressrooms and meetings before where she's introduced connections and contracts. This woman leads them from the main lobby, down a polished marble-floored hallway. Her heels are loud, echoing off the flooring in a steady rhythm. Her shoes have a jewel studded strap across her lower foot. Rainy counts the woman's steps as conversation happens between the adults and dies. She doesn't like the woman's shoes.

 _"Deborah. Call me Deborah,"_ she remembers the woman's introduction. Back then when she wore red wax lipstick that stained her teeth and chipped fingernail polish and candy-scented perfume. _"Deborah. Call me Deborah,"_ as her name tag reads.

Deborah speaks to Rainy's father, telling him that there are people waiting to talk to him in a next room, and Rainy's mother raises her daughter's chin with a forefinger, getting her attention when they came to the point of destination. Rainy does as her mother instructs.

They stop in front of a pair of wide double doors. "Now, don't say anything that doesn't pertain to your campaign. They will try to suck any and everything out of you, so don't lose your composure. They're like record players—say one wrong thing and you will never hear the end of it. And it will be the end of you, your family, and your career. All of us are riding on you, and you only have one try."

Rainy's father just keeps this sly smile, listening to his assistant, watching her straighten his suit and tie. "I think I know how to do this by now."

Donna's hand rests on her daughter's shoulder, and Rainy can't feel her mother's squeeze. But she doesn't need to look up to know the hard look her mother is holding for Deborah.

"Alright then. Go get those vultures." Deborah takes a steadying inhale, mentally preparing for the bombarding of camera flashes and rising voices and tape recorders pulled out from thin air. "Get ready in three..." She places her hands on the door handles. "Two..." Her shoulders brace. Rainy's father steels. "One..."

The room isn't big. It's enough to hold a small conference; it's filled with rows of red unfolded chairs. But as soon as they enter, the rows that had been occupied by photographers and journalists empty as the people stand, their voices blending together in a a chorus of incoherent babble.

It is a feat in the eyes of some of the press that a Latino man with a Negro wife has gotten so far in the election. However, Rainy's father almost never regards himself as so. It has become a topic of shame at the family reunions they used to attend.

Rainy's mother plus her daughter closer, shielding Rainy as the family makes it to the small stage where they take their seats and her father steps to the podium.

In the back, Deborah watches, hands crossed in front of her, watching intently. She hopes he doesn't slip up. Mr. Capulet is a confident and eloquent man and he is _sure_ that he has all of this together. He wouldn't fail, but still Deborah is still nervous. As she should be. For her career and her current life situations.

A photographer aims his camera and flashes the stage. Rainy blinks rapidly, the light causing stars in her eyes. One woman pushes her way to the front of the crowd and with a loud voice, asks the first coherent question.

This is something Rainy's used to now. The crowds, the reporters, the constant meetings, and she's numb to it all. She's indifferent to it, and follows directions without conflict. Her mother orders her to not crinkle her dress, and she sits with an erect spine and ankles crossed. It isn't like there was much to do other than analyze and observe each demanding, shouting journalist.

Her mother's hand on her shoulder did nothing. And she watches with a calm, straight face as her father answers concerns regarding the school board, the job wages, and public safety. He proclaims that a recreation center will be built for the insane, taking them from the jails and therefore opening up jobs. He proposes more forces be placed toward education and school, upping teacher's wages. He professes that he is for more safety and the protection for the people. That is when he orders Rainy to come forward and stand beside him, and he retells that story that he is _certain_ will sway the public in his favor, using the heartstrings about children and danger.

"When my daughter was just three years old, she was almost taken away from us. Kidnapped." He holds Rainy under his right arm, the other animated as he speaks.

Rainy's face remains emotionless. She's heard this all before too.

"She had been out playing at a local park in our old town and a stranger approached her. A peculiar fellow, all mysterious and obvious with a coat and hat. A mutant. You see..." He starts choking up, his voice becoming thick. Rainy knows it was all for show. "He kidnapped our daughter. My wife was too far away at the time... It was a chase tat the police refused to really help. But we found him at the lake pier. And then we found out it was a mutant when this long appendage...when this _monstrous_ _tail_ came out from under his jacket and aimed it at my daughter's face..." He swallows, forcing crocodile tears. "She was immediately rushed to the hospital afterwards and we feared we would have _lost_ our daughter that day..."

He hugs Rainy to his side.

"And I _will_ work to make sure that _never_ happens to another innocent child again. That panic is something a parents should _never_ have to endure. And one of the things I will make sure of—I _promise_ that I will do _whatever_ _is_ _in_ _my_ _power_ to prevent things like that from happening again!" He uses this to support more security and schools and work places.

Rainy steals a glance of her father from the corner of her eye. He wouldn't say it directly but anyone knows what he meant.

 _No more mutants_

And Rainy knows the true tale despite the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

Mr. Capulet will eventually make his closing and photographers will snap photos of him and his family in his arms. His quotes will appear in the papers the following day, and Rainy will stand, stone-faced, it all passing by in a blur.

She doesn't care, she wouldn't care about her father's thoughts, even though most of them were false.

And she will go back to standing beside her mother who will wrap her arm around her daughter's shoulders again and give Deborah a suspicious glare as they leave.

And at home, Rainy doesn't care. She listens to her father continue to lie to the public. She doesn't question him about it or that repeated made-up tale of her potential kidnapping and why her mother is in on it. She couldn't anyways.

She will sit in her room and attempt to built a structure either out of Legos or tying pencils together. Her father is running for town mayor and Rainy couldn't care less about him or his thoughts or wellbeing.

 ** _. . .  
_** ** _. . ._**

Ronny leans against the only bare wall of his bedroom.

The white-painted walls of his home are thin, and from his bedroom he can hear his parents yet again. He guesses it is from their bedroom that they are arguing since their voices are faint and sound to be on the other side of the one-story house. A _clunk!_ sound echoes down his way with their voices. His mother's shrill tone that raises above his father's.

Ronny sits on the floor in his bedroom, his back slumped, right cheek pressing against the paint of the wall. His jaw hangs open and though there is no reddening to his complexion, his body feels like he is in one-hundred degree weather. He's unbearably hot but doesn't want to risk stepping outside his room in case he runs into his parents, and their anger turns on him. It's always best to give them time and space to cool down after one of their feuds.

Speaking of cooling down...

Ronny had tried using a magazine as a fan but that hadn't worked much. He had drawn his curtains closed after arriving in his room to block out the heat and sunlight, but apparently that hadn't done much good and he is sweating terribly on his bedroom floor. The heat is trapped in his room, forcing him to toss off his shirt and pants. He is down to his underwear and is still no cooler.

When he had arrived back home earlier that day, he walked in on his mother tidying his bedroom. She smiled; it took Ronny a moment to force one himself and ask why not just tell him. _Invading his private space_ would not have been an approved reply. He's noticed that she has been doing things as such increasingly so. She reuses her excuse that she's cleaning because she "just wants to take care of you. You know that." But Ronny has shooed her away before. Not wanting to feel guilty, he doesn't object or stop her this time. His father hadn't been in the best mood when he walked in the door and the air around Ronny's mother quickly changes. That too, he's noticed has been happening increasingly so.

During her impulsive clean, his mother had his room curtains opened, because when he returned, his room had been noticeably warmer than than when he left. Her complaint had been about how dark his room is.

It's very humid and the boy had been eager to escape the heat, only to find his room was even worse, trapping the heat with a thermostat that isn't lowered enough.

His mother completed her smothering when his father arrived, and the air changed. Ronny promptly returned from his voyage to the kitchen and hid around the corner.

The arguing had begun soon after that, his mother complaining about his father's lack of contribution and the trash that still hadn't been taken out and how he must be late about everything.

Ronny inches from around the corner, offers to take the trash out and already walking toward the bin. His father had yelled at him, and without another word, Ronny turned on his heels and locked his bedroom door.

Now he sits, hungry and sweating like a dog in his room while he is too afraid to be yelled at by his parents again.

 _Why is his room so hot?_

Ronny gasps as if it would help, wishing there was more than this humid air. He can feel beads of sweat rolling down his skin.

This arguing, fighting, and tension between his parents has been going on for years now. The clearest memory he can recall of his family being calm and happy was before they moved here when he had been very young.

Ronny used to blame this place for making his parents unhappy and destroying their marriage, but now he knows better. He knows it is something he probably couldn't have helped and knows the possible outcome that is approaching. He thinks about it whenever _this_ happens, whenever they yell when they think he can't hear and when things _clunck_ against the walls. Ronny thinks about why this happens and what must have started it. About what he is to do after, who he would rather live with, where he would rather go after graduation. He thinks about it a lot.

INNOCENCE

HATRED

And he hates this.

He can hear his father's voice rising now, overpowering his mother's.

Ronny scowls, the emotions getting to him. And he _hates_ this.

He had drawn his curtains closed long ago but his room is still unbearable.

He shoves away from the wall to sit up properly. His eyes glare at a random point and sweat rolls down between his shoulder blades. He growls.

HEAT

HATRED

 _Why_ is he the one who had to suffer from this, like this? He knows that his parents are beginning to hate each other— _have_ been hating each other for years and did a _pitiful_ job of hiding it. But why _him_? _Why_ did he have to suffer like this?

His back against the wall, bare feet spread out in front of him, sweat rolls down his arms. And he growls, frustrated and uncomfortable. His glare sets on one of his lava lamps. He doesn't register the noise he made.

HEAT

HATRED

DARK

 _RED_

The room is a sauna to him, the temperature steadily rising, worsening. And with every minute that ticks by—it being almost almost two hours now—the heat gets to him. Makes his head hurt, makes his skin itch.

He's glaring now at the lava lamp with eyes that would frighten his mother.

RED

The voices of his parents are dying down now but the mutant hadn't paid attention. This room is sweltering, and _why did he have to go through all this_?

Sweat gathers above his brow. A burning feeling grows inside his stomach and his glare intensifies. He squares his shoulders, jaw slacks and offsets. It wasn't fair.

RED

Ronny's neck rolls a little to the side, the frightening glare still directed to his lamp. He groans, it sounding less human, and his head lowers an inch, and is panting.

And as the minutes tick by, Ronny holds a look that would have made Peter uneasy. The boy slumps forward, panting heavily as if hoping to somehow cool his body temperature, and he groans. His eyes had changed to a bright brown that was close to amber now, and his jaw hangs open, baring his teeth.

RED

He lost count of how long he's trapped himself in his room.

The voices of his parents have died and remain unregistered in his mind. Ronny sits panting and slumps against the wall until—his mother barges into the room. The sudden motion of the door flying snaps him out of his daze and he whips around, shocked and doe-eyed to his mother's concerned look, gaining a pain in his neck.

 _SNAP_

He mother pauses, entering a dark room. She questions why has he drawn the curtains again, and then observing his current state, asks why he is sweating so much. She asks whether he had taken drugs or if he is sick.

Ronny is still shocked from her suddenly snapping him back to reality.

His mother doesn't believe him when he explains that him room is just _too hot_.

"No it's not. Well maybe just a _slight_ bit from the rest of the house..." she muses. "I haven't turned the thermostat from 72. There's no reason for you to be sweating like this!"

Ronny begins to stand, scavenging for his shirt, and states that he is just going to go out into the living room for a while. His mother doesn't let him, blocking the doorway.

"You're going to the doctor's." It's a statement more than a thought. She grabs his arm, yanking him from retrieving his pants from the carpet. "You're sick, I just know it."

Ronny holds in a groan, this one from having an overly agitated mother. But she insists. And begins scolding about how he has always gotten sick easily ever since he was baby. She blames it on poor immune system. His mother rambles on and on, knowing that it's her way of letting off steam.

His mother says that he was sick but, oh, how she wrong she is. She is very, very _wrong_.


	18. 15: hate or bad intentions (Episode 7)

Wanda clutches the textbook to her chest, red jacket zipped up to her shirt's collar.

The halls of Sherbrooke High are crowded, per usual, and she has her eyes open for any bullies, for those she might have and has been avoid. But she also has an eye out for Troy—she always had an eye out for Troy. Neither Marya nor her brother know about her crush, Wanda still too shy to even hint about it, and fears of the laughter she would receive from Peter about it.

In the school hallway, she walks alone, chin down and textbook held firmly to her chest because she doesn't look people in the eye, prefers not to have confrontation. Because so, she gives a slight jump when there's a bump to her shoulder—it's her brother coming up beside her, one hand in his pocket, the other around the apple he's biting into.

Wanda quickens her pace.

" Peter! You shouldn't be here," she hisses. Not in the school, but near her. "They might start talking again."

She means those whose like to talk negatively about him. It isn't unknown of Peter's school social status and his shenanigans, and secretly Wanda doesn't want that to be attract onto her, not when she is so close to being with one of the top ball players. She hasn't seen the Populars that like to talk yet this morning but that doesn't mean they weren't close by. She would like to continue her distance and to remain off their radar.

"Oh shut up. I'm not going to interfere with you and _Troy_." He casually bites into his apple.

Wanda stammers. _'How did he know about that?'_ She thought she had been careful enough at hiding any hints about it, especially in his presence.

"Don't worry about that," he replies to her thoughts, speaking around another bite. Really, he can read Wanda like a book, as she to him. "Besides," he chews, swallows. "I'm here for _other_ plans, bigger people."

"Someone more important than your _ego_? Oh, who might be the _"fortunate"_ soul this time?" Her voice sour, comment dripping with sarcasm.

"Yes!" His finger points at her, still holding his fruit. "Haha. But you're still not funny. And it's more _personal_ business."

As they walk, Peter side-eyes a boy in glasses at a locker—a boy in glasses who is on the Dean's List for high grades for the umpteenth time, and who is very familiar, someone whom Peter had used to know. His death glare isn't seen directly by the other, and he and his sister don't stop walking.

"Remember that when you need me to bail you out of trouble again," she warns. "And personal business like when you got caught on the bars surrounding that pool that summer?"

"That was one time!"

She's indicating last summer. With hormones raging, Peter had snuck to a nearby pool against Marya's orders. And while doing peeping tom at the girls in swimming wear and wanting a closer look-see, his shirt got caught on the points at the top of the gate when he tried to climb over. By chance, his sister successfully snuck out and found him. Wanda was the only one he could put aside his pride and accept help from though she couldn't keep a straight face while using her powers to lift him down.

"The bars aren't even that sharp at the top…" she carries on in a sigh, wondering just _how_ he had gotten caught.

She remembers his clothes being ripped and him begging her to help him fix it so Marya wouldn't find out. That summer, he learned how to sew. Marya had been quite suspicious on not only when he learned the skill but _why_. So far, she hasn't found out why, except a lie conjured by Wanda as his alibi.

Now if you were to go back to the pool, they had put up a new fence, one with metal bars much closer together and no space to sneak through. To this day, Wanda doesn't let her brother forget that incident, or the many other times she's helped him out of trouble.

Peter rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I have other things to get to besides your _girl crush._ " He waves to his sister, leaving and beeline-ing to a pair of girls in the hallway.

Wanda only shakes head, sighs, and carries on to her classes before she could be called out. Those girls are part of the Popular pinnacle at the school. More specially, they are a part of The Bees' clique. Like many others in the school, Wanda doesn't like the populars and can't understand why her brother chooses to spend so much time around them. But it's not like she is going to stop him. The boy is so, so stubborn when he wants to be—which is most times.

Peter saunters over to the small group of students. It's made up of a boy leaning over Mckenzie that nudges her shoulder, motioning to the coming mutant with a knowing smirk, and Mckenzie's face immediately falls when she sees Peter. The others around her start to snicker—they all know how Peter had gotten her in trouble and of the bargain he wants from her. They think it funny, and outlandish, and _of course it will never happen_. It's completely shameful to have a _weirdo_ pin after you who thinks they hold so much authority come to you like that, _for_ that. It's weird because they usually keep coming and coming and coming back.

"What do _you_ want," Mckenzie spits when Peter arrives.

He just continues with that snarky _look_ as he worms his way in-between Mckenzie and the boy she had been flirting with—who happens to be her boyfriend. Peter turns to her, attention only to her, lead against the wall, trying to look cool in his black letterman.

He's smiling, cocky. "Hey sweet cheeks. What's say you, me, night out on the street, yeah? Or a little driver thru?"

Mckenzie stares incredulously. _Who did this outcast think he was?_ Her frown returns when her friends begin to snicker louder. "How about I'd rather cut my own hand off instead," she responds, honestly not interested.

But Peter is persistent, he always is. "That can be arranged. You won't need it anyways when with me," he jokes, and then pulls her closer with an arm. "You know, they say I'm a snake in the sheets."

When he pulls her close, much to Mckenzie's dismay and her face reddening, she's embarrassed, knowing the guy she _is_ interested in is watching. Petet leans in to whisper in her ear, and out of the corner of his eyes and in the crowd he sees Rainy walking alongside a girl with an afro. Rainy isn't paying attention to anything else except her path—as usual—and yet Peter's grip slackens.

And his glance had all been in a second's beat, and in that missed time, Mckenzie slaps his arms away and aims for his stares with wide eyes.

"A snake?" And she barks a laugh. "Who said that? You must have meant an itty, bitty _shrimp_. Because the only action you've had was with your hand."

Peter forces a laugh that comes out more like a scoff. "And how else would _you_ know that, babe?"

Her face reddens further. Her eyebrows arch down. "No girl would be able to find it even if you were naked in front of them." Her crowd then laughs but Peter straightens his stance. "You think you're all _cool_." She steps closer, looking him straight in the eye, despising him greatly. "You wouldn't _be_ _able_ to ever get me."

However, a grin graces his face. "That's a challenge I'm willing to take, sweetheart." He rocks back on his heels, enjoying her sarcastic smile _dropping_ from her face and her look of utter surprise. He knows that she hadn't expecting that sort of reply and is why he then tells her what to be wearing when Spirit Week would be starting in the next three weeks.

And he rocks back on his heels wearing a shit-eating smile while Mckenzie and her crew all hold flabbergasted expressions that a _freakazoid_ had been so determined and sure that he'd get with with one of the most popular girls at Sherbrooke High—and that it looks like he's going to.

 ** _. . .  
_** ** _. . ._**

"Mr. and Mrs. Addams...your daughter is apparently a very good student. ...Her grades are in order, she's never been up to my office with any trouble before, and I've heard nothing but good reviews until this day..."

"Yes but that doesn't sound anything like Sheryl," Mrs. Addams speaks and asks why they couldn't schedule on a different hour, when she wasn't on the clock for work.

And so, the dean tells of Sherry Addams' outburst in class a week ago. And he tells that Sherry is the only one that had gotten in trouble and the girl _swears_ it _had_ to be something to do with Clarice, noting how the blonde and Mckenzie hadn't even gotten a wrap on the wrist from the incident. Sherry can't understand _how_ , not when she explained what they had said, what they have done, and of some of the bullying that's happened in the past.

Sherry has never liked either girl. Both Clarice or Mckenzie are too prideful, too selfish, stuck-up, and just plain rude. They talk down to anyone who they don't see worthy or _cool_ enough in their eyes, which is one of the reasons Sherry is on their list of to-bully, and why she isn't in their popular circle. Because she isn't as judgmental and smiles more, Sherry is labeled _too nice_ and _a walk-over_ , and wouldn't be able to remain in Clarice's group before letting some lowlives in.

And yes, Clarice's group. If anyone would observe, they'd see that the blonde is basically the ringleader of the populars and who calls the shots. Mckenzie is more of her right hand woman, and both are equally evil for the job.

Today, Sherry's parents are in one of the dean's offices at Sherbrooke to discuss their daughter's previous outburst and why she had been sent out if class and given a referral. Sherry sits silently next to her parents.

"So, you're telling me that when _my_ daughter is being _harassed_ by those other girls; when _my daughter_ stood up for herself, _she's_ the one that gets in trouble?" Mrs. Addams looms over the dean's desk. She is still in a pair of scrubs and her black hair tied back in a high ponytail from having to rush straight from work on her lunch break. The sterile scent of the hospital lingers on her. Beside her, Mr. Addams sits calmly in a nice buttoned shirt and denim jeans.

The elderly man—the dean—leans back in reflex, stammering out the excuse that Sherry's behavior wouldn't be tolerated in the school. And while Mrs. Addams agrees about the uncalled for outburst, she isn't going to allow this situation to be dealt with so poorly by this heavy punishment being from her daughter's only wrong. Sherry is being punished unfairly; this situation is being handled very poorly, and those two bullies are still out there probably getting away with doing much worse.

Mrs. Addams places a habd on her chest as her tone softens and she shifts her right onto one leg. "Sir, I've dealt with kids who have literally been _pushed_ to slicing their wrists open from situations just like this. These aren't just _words_ or teenage antics. Kids have been driven and bullied to end their lives by peers _just_ _like_ those two girls." Mrs. Addams' tone is soft but her words drive deep and silences the dean behind his desk. "So don't _try to lie_ and _convince me_ that this is a _small issue_ and _my daughter_ is at fault here. I don't know how well or closely you pay attention to these students here or listen to what is going on but you have some very troubling ones—some I have taken care of myself."

"I-I understand, Mrs. Addams, but your daughter's attitude still has to be dealt with…" His voice trembles slightly.

Mrs. Addams' eyes harden to an almost deathly look.

Her husband sitting beside her holds a gllare of his own, silently agreeing with his wife and keeping a poker face, unlike her.

Sherry keeps her eyes cast down.

"Oh," Mrs. Addams takes a step back, straightening her posture, "we _will_ take care of it. We're her parents." She gives a curt nod, meaning it. "But as a parent as well as someone who will have to _clean up your faults_ , I expect you to take care of those two." Her hand waves around at _those two_ , indicating Clarice Wilhelm and Mckenzie Shabotz.

Sherry and her parents exit the office not long after, the strawberry blonde's gaze still to the floor. She had been released without any punishment, her mother tired of sitting in that office and making the dean's knees tremble. She's completely wasted her lunch break too.

When the family rounds the corner outside the dean's office, Mrs. Addams and Sherry pause. Mr. Addams gave Sherry a pat on the shoulder and a smile as he tells his wife he is going back to work, blowing both a kiss.

Mrs. Addams waits until her husband leaves to look back around the corner and catching the dean hurrying out his office towards the principal. She hopes he is finally going to put an effort in his job. She shifts her purse further up her shoulder, clasps Sherry's shoulder.

"What you did back there, back in class, that is very brave." Her voice is calm and smooth, a slight opposite from earlier. Sherry is surprised. Her mother's tone is soft like when she used to cuddle Sherry in her lap. "I've met many kids your age who wouldn't have done the same, and I know those girls have been a bother for years." Mrs. Addams smiles. "I'm proud of you."

Sherry's mouth drops, praise being the least she expected.

"A fly might fly in, honey," her mother jokes about Sherry's open mouth. "Now I gotta get back to work." She pulls Sherry into a hug. "I'll see you later."

Sherry relaxes in her mother's arms. "Are you serious about when you said that thing about other kids having been bullied and…when…when, you know, they kill themselves...?"

Mrs. Addams hesitates. "Yes. It's not a pretty sight or something to know, _but_ it's true. Some wouldn't have been as brave as you, especially after dealing with those girls this long." Her arms tightens around her daughter's shoulders. "That's why I'm so proud of you."

Sherry knew her mother wouldn't let the school get away with such poor handling of the students' wellbeing and so lightly. But it hasn't been dealt with and Mrs. Addams isn't finished yet.

"Everything's been taken care of. Now if you have anymore trouble, don't hesitate to phone, alright?" Her mother sounds so much like the lawyer her father said she should be. She is a great negotiator, and that is one of the things that made her husband fall for her.

They are still going to have to discuss this later at home, she tells her daughter, but Mrs. Addams isn't going to take anymore time from work, much less at this school. She shoos her daughter off to class. And Sherry nods, catching her mother's figure vanish through the glass door and around the corner to the parking lot.

The halls are clear due to class still going on and Sherry's grip on her bookbag hanging feom her shoulder tightens unconsciously. It had already been embarrassing being pulls out of class because her parents are here, and she isn't eager to return just yet. Clarice is in her class this period as well...

The anxious meeting in the dean's had left her throat dry.

After taking a restroom break, Sherry turns to make a detour to a nearby water fountain. Her steps falters seeing a girl already there, and slows her own to wait for her turn. The girl is a redhead, hair made up in a large braids bun—she has a lot of hair! Sherry admires for a moment.

She slows her steps so that when she arrives at the fountain, the girl should be finished. But that didn't happen and the girl remains, holding her bangs at her side, drinking way more than Sherry probably ever would have.

Sherry grips the strap of her bookbag, feeling awkward, standing off to the side, waiting.

The girl swallows, taking another breath. "There's another one down the hall." She then returns to drinking.

Sherry knew the girl meant another water fountain, but Sherry had been caught so much off guard by uer speech that she didn't move, not knowing how to respond. She's heard of the girl with the extremely long hair, has seen her passing by, has heard speculations and rumors and that she talks to herself but then doesn't talk at all. ...To be honest, Sherry was going to wait and didn't expect a word to come from the other.

Meisha continues drinking, then takes a final gulp. She turns, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her bright brown eyes catch Sherry still there.

"Can I help you with something." Her tone holds an edge of bitterness. When Sherry doesn't answer, Meisha shifts her weight to her other foot. "What're you staring at?"

Sherry blinks. "You…have a lot of hair," is the only excuse she comes up with.

Meisha's brows knit together. "Yeah, it grows. So what?" She leans back down to take another drink of water.

Sherry points a finger. "Are you done?"

Meisha looks at her from the side of her eye. Slowly, she rises from the fountain, wiping her mouth again, and stepping to the side for Sherry to take her turn. Sherry sees that the girl's motions are slow, like she is deliberately going slow…or testing, watching Sherry. She definitely feels the other's stare as she steps to drink from the fountain.

Meisha leans against the white-painted brick wall, and folds her arms. "You're that Sherry girl, aren't you?"

Sherry glances up, nods.

"Do you know that Juliet girl?"

Sherry raises a brow.

Meisha pauses, acting as if she is trying to recall a name. "Rainy, I think her name is." She smiles.

If Sherry had seen it, she'd probably think it was snake-like and that it correlates with her bright eyes.

"Yeah, I do," Sherry answers. "Why? You know her?" She glances up at Meisha from the side, a brow rising.

"Oh no reason." Meisha smiles innocently, tilting her chin upward. She then becomes serious. "I heard about what happened with the popular bitches."

Sherry sighs when she finishes her drink. "That's circling already?"

"Yeah," Meisha shuffles her folds arms. "And she says that _you_ started it."

Sherry's chin dips in disbelief. "Are you serious…?"

Meisha raises a hand. "As a heart attack."

"Ugh! She—-that…that aggravating…deceiving...liar!"

Meisha pokes out her lip. "…I think that's what lying means." She is being a smartass.

"I can't believe her!" Sherry cries, grabbing at her head in frustration. How is she going to fix this? She leans and rests her hands on the sides of the water fountain. "How long has been going around?"

The mutant muses. "Umm…almost three days, I guess…"

Great.

"Oh my _god_ I hate her…"

"Hate's a pretty strong word."

"I know."

A grin slips across Meisha's face. Sherry doesn't see, turned away. "You really don't like her huh…she bothers you that much?"

Sherry gives the other a disbelievin look. "It's Mckenzie _and_ Clarice."

Meisha's grin is gone when Sherry looks back at her. She sucks her teeth. "You and the rest of us."

Sherry's face relaxes. "Hey what's your name? I've seen you around here."

Meisha becomes almost shocks now. She tells the strawberry blonde and Sherry snaps her fingers, remembering that she's seen Meisha at several school events when she had her hair down. But that had been over a year ago. She tells that she is amazed at Meisha's hair length.

Meisha smiles politely.

"Say, are you going to participate in Spirit Week?" Meisha asks.

Sherry shrugs, telling that now she is reconsidering it. It is because The Populars are probably going to be in charge of it for yet another year.

"Um…I know this is short notice, but if it's okay with you...could I...go with you...?" Meisha is truly shy to ask. "I could help to where Mckenzie wouldn't both you too." This had Sherry's attention and when she asks how, Meisha responds, "I know someone who can keep her busy. Then it's one less to worry about."

Sherry's familiar wide smile appears on her face again. "Of course!" She tells Meisha how it would be exciting to have another redhead to coordinate outfits with. Now, they are going to look great, she promises, honestly excited.

She's seen Meisha on a few occasions and talked with the girl a handful times but it had always been over minimal like to borrow a pencil or about the homework or attendance. Sherry has heard that the other redhead is labels a _freak_ by social status and that she is weird, keeps to herself, and about her long hair. But that is the thing that separates Sherry from the other crowd of Populars—she doesn't judge by rumors.

Sherry is honestly _excited_ to have Meisha to partner at Spirit Week with, hoping it would be a one-up than just going with Rainy—whom Sherry isn't even sure she wouldn't go with Michelle's friends. Either way, Sherry had made another friend, she hopes.

Either way, Meisha wouldn't be ashamed by coming without a partner and would be in closer range to Rainy.

 ** _. . .  
_** ** _. . ._**

Rainy's pencil stops writing. "I don't think we should meet up anymore."

Peter pauses from biting into his snack, brows furrowing. Is she backing out of this, he wonders, frets, jumps to conclusion. He starts speaking the accusation and she interrupts him.

"This girl—your sister, I'm guessing—doesn't want us together."

"Don't talk like we're in a relationship," he snaps, hoping he isn't turning _red_. "And what do you mean _sister_? What gave you that idea?"

"You both have a similar look in your eyes," she muss, remembering Wanda's eyes under her red hood and waves of hair.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"And she came to me earlier today."

 _Rainy remembers Wanda's eyes bearing down at her from under her red hood_

 _"I know you've been seeing Peter Maximoff"_

 _Wanda had been short and to the point_

 _"Leave him alone. Don't go stringing him by a cord"_

 _Rainy had paused her planning of their next tutoring session in her planner_

 _"And who are you? You must think highly of yourself to give out authoritative orders to a mere stranger"_

 _Rainy had looked back at the girl straight in the eyes_

 _"I don't want you near Peter anymore got it?"_

 _Rainy's gaze doesn't waver and her arm remains on her paper, holding her pencil_

 _"And who are you?"_

Peter wants to swallow but Rainy would hear (he exaggerates to himself).

"When did this happen?" He is starting to sweat at the neck.

"Did you not hear me? Today."

"Don't..." Peter places his snack down on the table. "Don't worry about her. I'll deal with her. I'll get this."

"I do hope so." Rainy looks up at him, not moving from over her paper. "I don't need to go clean up your mess about how you made a girl cry. You're already enough to deal with alone."

"I'm not going to make my own _sister_ cry! …And you'd be lucky to bask in my air."

Rainy leans to the side. "You should really work on your wording, especially if you're going to need my help after this paper. I don't doubt you would either."

Peter is ready to snap.

Rainy had rented out a study room in a local library. She had been careful about its location, making sure it had no large windows outlooking into the library and is toward the back. She meant it about not wanting to be seen by others—it not only had to do with her own reputation in school but for personal reasons as well. She doesn't speak what they are, however.

Rainy leans to the side in her chair. "Oh so she is your sister?" A smile would have spread across her face if she could and without it looking like a hideous grimace. Instead, she remains deadpan.

Peter realizes his outburst. "Whatever. Just forget it." He returns to his snack.

Rainy sits up in her chair and opens her book to where they left off last time.

With these study sessions it's a two way street—she'll help Peter with the essay but he had to pay attention in class, something he still struggles with. He also pays her five dollars a week. Last time, Rainy had to reread the last two chapters they had gone over in class, here in the study room.

Peter found it much easier to listen that to follow and read himself. Sometimes he fantasize about laying in Rainy's lap, listening to the book that way...

YEAH RIGHT!

She would end him if he ever he suggests it.

"…Right here, the boy uses this as a metaphor for death and growing up. That's how that old lady is considers an important level in his life."

Peter listens with a cheek in his palm, doing his best to eat at a normal pace.

"Do you understand?" Rainy asks.

He shrugs. "I guess." Takes another bite. "It's still boring though."

She mumbles under her breath low enough that Peter has to strain to hear it: _"So is everything else"_

Sometimes he forgets about her condition—he actually does, often—like when he grabs at her arm and she only stops when she notices her body isn't moving any more. Or when she wouldn't laugh at a joke. Or when she speaks, so straightforward and placidly, and how she's able to pay so close attention to little details. Her condition is also how she realizes that Peter and the girl with the red jacket are related.

It is something he is still getting used to and sometimes he hates it.

Peter finishes the rest of his snack and leans forward across the table, sprawling his arms in her direction across from him as Rainy searches for a passage in the novel. And as she begins reading aloud again, he likes to focus on the way her lips pronounce.


	19. 16: intermission iii (Episode 7)

"I don't want you around her!" Wanda stomps after her brother and into their two-story suburban home.

The bus pulled away in the distance seconds ago and Peter tries to block out his twin's nagging, fingers in his ears as he lies on the grass lawn, but it's harder to do and thus has to endure it. He watches his sister in normal speed as she stomps up the small steps to the front door and rummage for her house key. But being quicker, Peter unlocks the door as she is still approaching his side. She glares at his back and she already _knows_ his response—and that his eyes would get stuck in his head if he rolls them back any further—and she is close to scolding him and not unlike their aunt would do if she ever knew...

Both trudge into the midtone-colored living room. The front door slams shut behind and then her brother is gone with a faint _zip_.

" _Pietro!_ " Wanda shouts into the seemingly empty house.

Luckily, Marya and her daughter weren't home yet so the twins have the house all to themselves. Wanda isn't so sure that it was the best idea...

She balls her fists at her sides and her nose flares once and she waits for a response that she knows isn't going to come. "Pietro! You putz, you're unbearable!" She changes dialect and language, it rolling off her tongue like thick chocolate.

"Nobody asked for your opinion!" his voice rings out from his basement bedroom, responding in Serbian.

Serbian is their mother language, the one they grew up hearing the first several years of their lives before coming to The States. Back then, they lived with Marya and her husband before the twins' powers emerged. Sometimes, the twins and Marya find themselves slipping back into their first language. They also use it when they don't want the littlest Maximoff eavesdropping and she always whined about it and Marya promises to teach her one day when her several jobs allow her a long enough leave.

"You should _not_ be around her," Wanda calls back, tongue rolling.

In a gust of air, he's in front of her. Her expression is red and she is _fuming._ He sees and tries to mask his own.

He smirks.

"Wanda, do you really think that I would go as far as actually make friends, and to believe that you are the only woman in my life?" It's spoken in sarcasm but his expression in deadpan and serious.

The clock above the television tells that Marya would be picking up their youngest sister about now.

Wanda huffs. "You do not know her."

"I more than you."

Her eyes widen and for a split moment, and not for the first time she wonders what it is about this girl that keeps her brother so adamant.

Peter spins on his heels to trail into the kitchen. Wanda is right on his heels.

"What do you _do_ all day?"

Why did her brother spend so much time around this girl? And Wanda wonders what could they possibly be doing during those hours he's been spending with her. Wanda has heard of the things that Rainy Capulet has been in, of the deception she's caused, that she's a part of the schools more popular crowd, of the breaking and entering of the school that somehow hadn't reached the principal yet, of the heartbreak she's caused.

To Wanda, Rainy is nothing but trouble, a hindrance that Wanda's already easily distracted brother doesn't need.

Wanda wonders _why_ her brother is so intent on these sort of things, on things that are so trivial or that wouldn't earn someone _the best_ record within the law. Why he disappears after school for _hours_ on end and comes home late, leaving Wanda to watch their sister by herself. For so long, Wanda and the rest of their family chalked it up to Peter just being the uncontrollable teenager he was, but lately, Wanda has been wondering if it was something else—and when she found out that that Capulet girl had become involved, she had found her answer.

Wanda would have never dared to try the _popular_ gang, to interact with _them_ and much less to _constantly put up_ with someone like that girl who would continuously ignore and belittle, who only put up with him.

She watched him pop open a bottle of soda and drain it in seconds. Before he started on his second, she spoke.

"You know that she does not care, right?"

Wanda didn't expect for him to smirk in response.

He changed back to English, this time, not hiding the accent behind closed doors. "Actually, we've made a sorta… _agreement_. And she wouldn't be able to get along _without_ me." He chugged down the second Coke. "She even so thinks as _crossing_ me and," he snapped his fingers, "her world goes _boom_."

Wanda doesn't seem impressed. In Serbian, she speaks, "I know it's your bet. Do you really think it will work..."

Peter smiles, tilting his chin up and swallowing the last of the soda. "Well I guess we'll have to see if little Juliet would really waste away so tragically and selfishly, or if she actually has a _heart_."

"Шта? The hell does that mean?"

Peter raises a brow. "Romeo and Juliet. Have you never read it?"

It's a book he heard of first in English class and then from Rainy herself during a meaningless musing. She had given him the synopsis of the story weeks ago and barely with any emphasis on detail. He didn't have the teacher who assigned the book to read out loud for the first time that day, when the class those years ago had to take part in the reading and thus, he had not been there personally when Rainy first acquired her nickname.

Wanda's brows rise. "Have _you_?"

He goes quiet.

Peter purses his lips.

Wanda folds her arms.

Neither have read the story of Romeo and Juliet, but both knew the synopsis: of apparent star-crossed lovers who fell in love at first sight. They've heard of the story before from a teacher in class once, of the young teens who thought that their "love" was strong enough that it justifies suicide, that they thought that life would stop going on if one of them had to go without the other.

Wanda's eyes widen, registering the words he said. "Oh god. You gave her a _nickname_?!"

"Who a nickname?" He tries to play innocent.

" _Pietro_ ," Wanda sighs, " _don't_ try to be the hero, and think that you can change her. She's one of _them_ ," she means that Rainy is of the popular crowd. An enemy. A continuous social opponent. "You shouldn't be around her; she isn't good for you. Don't try to be the Romero in this situation."

Honestly, he's never thought of it in that way before.

His head tilts down and there is a small wrinkle in-between his brows. "She's not good for _you_ , you mean? And she isn't as bad as you think she is." And by Wanda's look, he knows she hadn't expected him to _defend_ this girl. "I know her," he lies. "And...she...something _happened_. She hasn't always been that way."

Well that much was obvious  
Anyone who's spoken with Rainy could tell  
something happened.

To Wanda, Rainy is the stone-faced girl who only replies with rude remarks and never smiles, much less exempt _any_ signs of emotion. She knows that Rainy had been a part of the popular clique ever since befriending some girl also within the crowd, but Wanda has never interacted with her.

She doesn't give an indication that she in fact spoken with Rainy earlier that week.

Peter points a finger. "And she told me that you went and interrogated her."

This makes Wanda's jaw drop open. _Interrogated?!_

"Don't go around trying to intimidate people, Wanda. You won't make friends that way."

If steam could come out of people's ears, it would have been coming out of hers by now. "That's a lie!" she cries. "She's lying to you!"

Rainy never spoke "interrogate" or "intimidate." But then again, Peter is known for exaggerating and stretching the truth.

"More like _tried_ ," Wanda corrects, meaning her allegedly intimidating Rainy. "She didn't even _blink_ at me. That girl...there's something terribly _wrong_ with her!"

Peter places his fists on his hips, forcing a cheeky half grin. "Yeah?" He leans in his sister's space. "Then why don't you _find out what_?"

He is only being sarcastic, but when she cranes her neck back, sucking in a big breath of air and that look in her eye, she doesn't square her shoulders but that look in her eyes. He know knows that look in her eyes, and immediately knows he had made a mistake and gone too far.

"Oh yeah? Then how about I _will_?!"

Peter's face falls.

He watches Wanda turn down the hallway that leads to the other bedrooms. He is in shock at his sister's assertness and sudden determination that it isn't until he hears the echo of her bedroom door slam that he snaps out of it, calling, "I was being _sarcastic_!"

 _ **. . .** _**_  
_. . .__**

Donna knocks on her daughter's bedroom door and waits to be told to enter. From behind the door, she can hear rustling, before her daughter invites her inside.

Inside her room, Rainy hunches over her desk. There are two textbooks open and loose papers littering the surface. One of her markers are uncapped inside the packaging. Her daughter's hair is loose and un-groomed, a tangle of large, loose, golden brown curls. And immediately, Donna feels as if she's intruded and side-steps to the wall, still watching her daughter writing down notes.

Rainy's voice breaks the quiet with a simple, "yes, Mom?"

Donna almost jumps a little at her daughter's sudden voice, and when Rainy turns around so slowly, eyes sticking to her paper as she finishes. There's a stray sheet of notebook paper sticking to her right elbow. The words Donna had been prepared to say vanish. She forces a smile instead.

"Hi, honey." She shifts her weight and Rainy's gaze glues to her. Under her daughter's gaze, sometimes it feels like she daughter seems almost... _emotionless..._ "You okay? You've been cooped up in here for a while and..."

 _And avoiding me and your father more than usual,_ is the truth she wouldn't choose to speak.

Donna has notices that her daughter has started to spend an increasing amount of time in solitary. It started three years ago, and dat first she did believe it to be the typical personal boundaries needed for teenagers, but there was something else... _off_.

Rainy also continues to lie that the reason she has been coming home later than usual was because she is spending more and more time at the local library. Donna once had a conversation about this with her husband before he chalked it off and rushed out again to some _meeting_ or something of another, and she began to wonder if Deborah is truly at home. Donna's husband hasn't been spending much time at home either lately, now that she thinks about it, and sometimes Donna feels like she's the only home anymore; she feels as if both her husband and her daughter are ignoring her and lying.

Rainy stares at her mother for the beat longer. "Yes. Are _you_ okay?" She notes her mother's stance of discomfort. "Something bothering you, Mom?"

Usually, Rainy would have just left it at the first question, but this is her _mother_. Even if she couldn't personally, _truly_ possess any feeling of care towards her mother's own feelings, she had to continue the _act_ , to at least _appear_ as if she did.

 _One person knowing is bad enough_

Donna pushes off from the wall, steps closer to her daughter. "It's just that.." she begins wringing her hands. "...You've been _so busy_ lately—you and your father—and I just feel that—-"

"Are you going to try and guilt trip me?" Rainy's words metaphorically cut through her mother, going straight to to the point.

The act of innocent and naivety isn't as subtle as Donna tried for it out to be, having done it to her family on many occasions already. But ever since the beginning of Rainy's... _condition_ , more things had began to stand out to the girl and coming to light—like her parents' guilt tripping, her mother's intimate "friends," her father's continuous _lies_. It's enlightening when you learn to read body language and to just _listen_ , when emotions don't get in the way.

Donna blinks away the tears she had begun forcing and takes on a look of surprise. "Uh n-no. Why would you say that?"

Rainy blinks. "I dunno," she lies, remaining deadpan. "You've done it before."

That look of shock flashes again for a split second. "Um well...I was _wondering_ if there was anything I could help you with. You, uh, seem to have a lot more schoolwork than usual, I see." Her eyes points to the girl's clutters desk. This is the third week in a row it has remained messy like this.

Rainy glances at her desktop and replies a simple "no." She continues, more honest. "This isn't something you can help me with."

"Why not?"

And then Rainy hesitates. Thoughts race through her mind at lightening speed.

 _'Why?_

 _'Because you'd learn about my private school life and activities. You'd learn about the ridiculous bet/neutral agreement with one of the school's outcasts, and from that you'd learn that he stole my necklace I was never supposed to lose, and you'd undoubly would want to take it to the head of the school. And then you would find out that we met when accompanied by Sherry and a few others when sneaking into the school after hours because there wasn't enough time given to complete the banners for the school event. Then you'd want to take that to the school board too and demand for more time for extracurricular activities and make reasons to why the government doesn't give more time which hinders children and affects their daily productivity._

 _'Because you_ _over exaggerate and take things beyond proportion. Because you try to poke your head into things that don't quite concern you and then make them worse.'_

But then none of that matters.

Not to Rainy

Rainy hesitates before answering her mother. "Because it's private."

Donna's brows knits together.

Because Rainy's mother has the mix of her own mother and father's opposing genes, her complexion is a lovely light brown—a light skins "redbone"—and her hair a certain dark, dirty blonde that comes from interracial reproduction.

"How private can homework be?"

"It's not mine."

Rainy glances at yellow Post-It note hidden under her left hand. It marks the parts of _Great Expectations_ she had to break down for Peter to _focus_ on and comprehend. From their weeks of meetings so far, she's found out that English is not his first language, which would explain the hint of an accent that started his teasing during school when he was small.

Rainy moves her hand over the yellow note, leaning back against her desk. She looks back up at her mother across her room. "I'm helping someone. Tutoring. And I'm sure they'd appreciate it if no one knew about it. Because it's embarrassing to them." Her voice is emotionless as usual but she tries to put emphasis to show that this is not a public issue.

Donna's mouth opens in a small o-shape of understanding. Aand then when Rainy hints to keep quiet, she has to object. "You mean don't tell your father?"

Rainy doesn't reply.

That option would be just as good too.

"You know I can't do that. Besides, you know how he gets."

Rainy stares back. Neither she nor her mother look away. It drags on for what feels like minutes, until she finally makes a move, turning her back to her mother and to her desk again. "Ok then. Just never mind then."

Donna wears a concern look with furrows brows. "Rainy, I'm not going to lie to your father. It's not a big deal, of all this." She waves an arm, indicating her daughter's work.

"Lie about what?" Rainy turns back around, brows rising in a convincing look. At least she hopes that they are. "This is my work, and I'd like it if he doesn't know about all the extra stuff I have to do for class. It'd be embarrassing. And nothing is a lie if it's simply not said."

And Donna knows what her daughter means. If she were to mention this to her husband, Rainy would only repeat the twisted truth that all these papers belong to her. She knows that her daughter would keep insisting and insisting and insisting, maybe go as far as to forge it. It wouldn't be unlikely, remembering the times as a toddler Rainy would blatantly lie to get out of trouble.

She's inherited both her parent's stubbornness, and at times it shocks Donna how prominent it shows.

And by the look on her daughter's face, Donna _knows_ that this plan would certainly happen if need be.

Sometimes she couldn't believe how devious her daughter has become. Now, she is beginning to believe the jokes made by their family about the sneakiness of she and her husband rubbing off on their daughter were jokes no more.

Rainy folds the yellow sticky note in half between her fingers. "So now, I have to get to my work, Mom. If that's ok..."

Her daughter wouldn't tell anything if she doesn't want to. She is stubborn that way.

 _ **. . .** _**_  
_. . .__**

Clarice pushes her vegetables around on her plate, a cheek slumped on a curled fist and a relentless look on her features. Her mother, who sits across her at the dinner table, watches her daughter from over the top rims of the eyeglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose.

"For the last time, Clarice, _stop being a child_ and _eat_ your vegetables."

Their dinner is of Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, steamed frozen vegetables and broccoli, and her daughter has been sour _all afternoon_.

"I don't _want_ these vegetables." Clarice continues moving them around with the teeth of a fork.

This argument had been going on for almost twenty minutes and having enough of it, Ms. Wilhelm slams her palms on the dinner table, jumping to her feet. Her actions cause the dinnerware to clatter.

"Clarice Elizabeth Wilhelm! Stop this nonsense! You're going to _eat_ them and you are going to eat them _now_!"

There's an elevation of tension in the air. Her shout makes her daughter jolt at attention. Their two cats jump and bristle.

Clarice glares at her mother but refuses to move. Her look speaks all that her mouth doesn't: a plain, flat out, challenging, _spoiled rotten_ "no."

Ms. Wilhelm has had a fairly pleasant day at work until she checked the answering machine when returned home to learned that her daughter had been in the cause of another fight. Clarice hadn't been one of the fighters but being there, a grin on her face and watching all too eagerly with a front row seat at the students pummeling each other, doesn't put the teen in a favorable light either. Especially not with that woman, Addams, voicing the wrong that had been done to _her_ own daughter— _that_ had been directly caused by Clarice. At least, to the untrained eye.

At the dinner table, Mrs. Wilhelm is breathing quite heavily, trying to keep her emotions under control because she knows that her outburst had not been her own. She hadn't been irritated until stepping foot through the door earlier that day and the overwhelming feeling of almost _rage_ filing their home. She had found her daughter fuming in her bedroom, scribbling away angrily in a pink cover journal.

"What if I _don't_?" Clarice challenges.

Her mother's nostrils flare.

From an outsider's perspective, the scene would have looks like the beginning of a negatively charged verbal fight. But Ms. Wilhelm is the _adult_ in this situation and she has to take control, she has the most control. The angrier she allows herself to become, the more she could feel her control being threatened, maybe overthrown. And Ms. Wilhelm is sensitive to these kinds of things.

"Clarice! _E_ _nough_!"

In the living room, their two house cats are hissing and spitting at one other, backs arching and controlled by the negative charges suffocating the air.

Clarice's disapproving look doesn't change and her mother becomes livid. Anger and irritation chokes the air so much that it could have starts a mob.

Ms. Wilhelm grabs her glass, barely resisting the urge to fling the water onto her daughter out of her controlled rage, but she knows that the act would only anger Clarice further, and instead she composes herself.

From the living room, mother and daughter can hear their cats going at it, fighting, hissing, and spitting.

Taking in a steadying breath, Ms. Wilhelm begins taking control, countering her daughter's negative charges by emitting her own calming pheromones. She counts backwards from a random number silently.

"Ok I'm going to try again. ...Clarice?" She tries to keep her tone steady and calm, feeling the anger in the room being overpowered. "Would you _please_ gain more control over yourself and quit this at the dinner table."

"Oh so just not at the dinner table then?"

The anger spikes again but Ms. Wilhelm ignores her daughter's sarcasm and gains it back under control. It takes almost an entire minute, but soon there are no more clawing sounding from the living room, but the cats continue to hiss.

"Clarice," her mother's voice is calm but still warning. "Stop this. Right now."

The blonde rolls her eyes and sighs exasperatedly. She plays with the vegetables on her plate more but the negative tension has effectively diminishes in the room. Her mother takes over, heaving a lungful and filling the living area with calming pheromones for the cats. Now she feel as relaxed and untroubled as she had been when she first walked through the door. She erases the tension in the air.

Their living area goes silent. The cats curl together, licking their scratch wounds. This whole ordeal hadn't lasts longer than six minutes.

She looks back at her daughter and forces a smile. "Now, eat your food, honey." Her knife makes faint clinks against the white ceramic plate. "You're not leaving this table until you do and I don't care if you miss your show." She raises a sliced piece of Salisbury steak to her mouth and chews, no longer worried about her daughter's spoiled groans of protest.


	20. 17: repercussion (Episode 7)

**_A/N: This is supposed to show things coming together as well before everything collapses. Next chapter is planned to be majority Rainy and Peter. Then maybe two more chapters before this whole story is over because I know everyone is sick of this but it's almost done._**

 ** _I'm going to wrap this up in about five more chapters or so._**

* * *

Rainy flips through the pages of the novel in front of her, finding the beginning of the chapter. Her eyes follow the words on the page for just an extra few seconds before closing the cover, keeping the page marked with a finger. Her lips part slowly at the start of a sentence, slowly as she thinks of her words first. "...Can you tell me anything you've learned from this?"

Peter sighs, face burying in the bend of his elbow. He slowly raises his head from atop the wooden table top and straightens his posture as he meets the steely gaze of the girl across him, and then he slouches in his chair. He answers, "that the boy is a little bitch baby."

Rainy's eyes glance from the re-opened pages of _Great Expectations_ , back to him, and then his pulse speeds briefly, faintly, but only for a millisecond. He's sure it's adrenaline, out of slight fear—because this girl has no emotion, and therefore has regret or caution for her actions; she could end he at any moment.

"Seriously, Pietro."

Her gaze is always so steely, cold, and almost aloof. Narrowed, a slight upward tilt at the edges. Once, someone commented that she has cat-like eyes.

He snaps, "don't call me _Pietro_."

She blinks—if she had the attitude to roll her eyes, she would have then. Her response is to not give one.

 _Rainy has light, bright eyes that shine in the light_

He holds her gaze for a few more moments before heaving an exaggerated sigh. " _Fine._ " His cheeks puff. He pushes back from the study room table, chair scrapin across the carpeted floor. " _Seriously_ …I wasn't really paying attention. I was…uh…" He rolls his wrist around in a thinking gesture. "I spaced out."

She stares.

And blinks.

She _stares_.

And he holds his breath.

Rainy watches him for another three seconds, and he then realizes that out of the three years of knowing about her, hearing the stories and opinions through the grape vines, for the first time he realizes that she had a vacant, almost _empty_ look to her eyes. For the first time it hits him; the weight of her situation, her condition and complications hit him. He realizes all the complications, the unknowing struggles, and it's _sad_ , for sure, but he doesn't quite know what to do or say or gesture. A shiver runs up his spine. And he swallows. He not longer can hold her gaze and looks away. He almost feels _sorry_ for her...

 _"I cannot feel._

 _"I have no feeling of touch...  
_ _I have no emotion..._

 _"There's no feeling to me,_

 _"Nothing whatsoever._

 _"I'm empty;_

 _"Cursed."_

Rainy closes the book loudly, and when the speedster jumps, she realizes just how forcefully she had done so, but merely slides the book to the side without an apology. And why should she give one? She doesn't feel bad about it, not like she _could_ have.

Rainy pulls out a notebook from her book bag and begins scribbling notes for a different assignment.

Peter squares his shoulders, cranes his neck. "Hey, Juliet…what're you writing in that thing? Aren't we supposed to be studying here? That isn't very professional of you, not paying attention like that, you know. Hey, what're you writing? What's that for?"

She doesn't bother looking back up; she doesn't bother answering.

"Hey, Juliet…"

He peers across the table, catching something in cursive. She had nice handwriting too...

Again, she shows how heavy hands she is and slams her notebook closes, making Peter jump again. But she remains seated, still, as if listening for something. Until finally, she murmurs, "it seems that we can't continue coming here any longer." She pulls at her folded, lace shirt collar to straighten it, and stands from the table in the secluded library study room.

Peter remains seats, eyes trained on her. "Why? Are we finishing—wait, are you quitting this?" He jumps to conclusions again. "You can't _quit_!"

"It's already five o'clock," she explains, stuffing her notebook back into her book bag, followed by her paperback copy of the novel assigned for class. Her voice is still so calm. "Plus, I had just went over everything we read and discussed in the last three class days. ...And someone from school must have caught on to us." The silver zipper of her bag is loud in the nearly quiet study room, but that's emphasized by the sudden panic Peter feels.

He perks. "Oh shit! _Who_?!"

He speeds over to a window to pull back the curtain and peek out into the library. Rainy stops him before he could.

"Don't open that. They're too close by."

"How could _you_ know?" he spits, harshly whispering.

"Listen."

He does, and indeed there is the soft scuffing of Jordan I sneakers across the library carpet floor and the lowered chattering about bimbettes, and the bass of Grandmaster softly thumping the air through headphones

Peter turns to the girl standing beside him at the closed window. "How could they have known?" His eyes are wide with concern, worry, panic. She doesn't think she's ever seen that look on him before.

Rainy walks back in the table at the middle of the room, slugs her bag over her shoulder. "…It's probably because I turned down Marcus earlier..." She muse slowly, lifting her chin to stare at a spider web in the corner of the ceiling.

Peter's head whips around, voice holding a suspicious edge. " _Who's Marcus_?"

"No one you need to be concerned with." Her bright eyes dart to his direction again. "Just some overly self-centered witless bag of hot air who wantee to ask me out last week." It is spoken with such calm and nonchalance that Peter has to remember that none of this even matters in the _slightest_ to her.

His eyes remains on her, almost studying.

"You didn't, did you?"

There is a pause as she straightens her pleads skirt, but he already knows her answer.

"No. I already have to follow after you. Why would I deal with someone who is ten times worse and doesn't seem to hold the capacity that manners matter?"

 _Hypocrite._

Well...

His eyes narrow. "That seems pretty hypocritical of you, doesn't it?"

"What did I say that could have been taken as hypocritical?"

"...Never mind..."

"Honestly, if someone doesn't have the mental capacity of a toilet plunger or not be able to solve a simple Sudoku puzzle, then there is no interest of mine and I'll simply wait for evolution to take it's coarse for them."

He thinks about his words, thinks about hers, remembers that her thoughts have absolutely no filter to her mouth. "Rainy...I thought this all would have passed by now..." He sighs. He means all the insults. Though given they haven't had a break in study sessions in four days.

"Passed what?" She looks back at him with such oblivion that Peter finds he just _can't_ get mad again. It would be useless to.

"Never mind."

* * *

Ronny stares up at the two-story white washed brick building and its large block letters mounted high. It can be seen miles away. It contrasts like a beacon, and it is _ugly_. Those dark, clunky letters against that ghastly paint of the bland building is enough to make him _actually_ sick and want to return home. But Ronny grips both straps of his backpack and lowers his chin and climbs the steps of the school's main entry doors. He ignores the shoves and pushes as students hurry past and inside as the first bell rings for class and just thinks, hopes, that this year will end on a good note.

Ronny is prone to bad luck

At the same time at a picnic table, Meisha sits with knees crossed and she leans back on her hands, the ankles of her high-waisted jeans rolled up to expose her converse shoes. When she catches sight of her friend slouched over and in his usual melancholy stance, she jumps to her feet, tries to wave for his attention but he isn't looking her way. So, naturally, she races over. Meisha has to tap his side to finally get Ronny's attention.

He wonders if it is just him or is there something… _off_ about her, something _different_.

"You alright, Ron?" Meisha isn't smiling exactly, but there is a hint of something like it tugging at the corners of her lips and he hesitates to respond.

She joins his side as he enters the school and into the frenzy of students before morning classes. But she also notices that he wouldn't look at her and continues rubbing his arm instead. Meisha visibly frowns catching sight of two bandages on the inside of his left elbow.

"You went to the doctor? You were sick?"

His eyes widen, darts down to her.

There is something wrong. She knows it.

"No..." He begins, and then swallows a lump in his throat. "I...I..."

His words jumble up and become a train wreck on his tongue and comes out in broken, sad fragments. He takes a moment to breathe, forcing himself under control again but just before he can organize the sentences in his head, a second smack on his back greets him from behind, and Ronny stumbles forward a step. When both Meisha and he turns steely glares to the greeter, this one in a much chipper mood, Peter's smiling face is what they find turns around to see.

The speedster has a hand up in greeting but his sharky grin weakens upon seeing his two friends.

"What's up with you two?" A pale brow arches.

Meisha and Ronny share glances and Peter begins to bristle. He jumps to conclusions as they take too long to answer. He worries; he grows suspicious. Did they know something that he doesn't? Were they keeping some sort of secret?— _were they actually together?!_

 _Oh god_

That would be the absolutely worst situation that could possibly happen, in his opinion. That, and he likely watches far too many dramas.

"What's going on." His tone snaps, holding a clear, cut edge to it. Turning to Ronny, a finger points. "What the hell happened to _you_ last weekend? You totally bailed!" The shorter boy throws his hands in the air, becoming ecstatic.

Meisha watches Ronny's head lower and his frown deepen. "I told you, I wasn't feeling good. You know I'm almost never free on weekends."

Ronny is almost never free because of his parents.

 _Parents Disturbed_

Peter feels his boiling anger beginning to simmer down. He rocks back on his heels, remembering so about the other's parents.

But it isn't like Ronny could have _actually_ had done anything that weekend any how. He was far too busy panicking in his room, isolating himself out of fear and because of his mutation; because his mutation causes him to be a _freak_ and visible anomaly, vanishing before your eyes, and it causes coarse, ugly visible changes that he's begun to notice.

"Right," Peter scoffs, shoving his fists in the pockets of his black letterman jacket. Ronny remembers that is the one with the tiger on the back; the one Peter's youngest sister stole once and almost spilled juice all over. Peter's chin points to the other, Meisha. "So, uh, what's with _you_? What's got you so totally weirded out?"

The three are now walking down the crowded hallway side by side, as if there weren't imaginary lines beginning to be drawn between them all.

Peter winks at a speckled blonde walking by. It's for show and they don't even notice.

Meisha rolls her eyes. The boy constantly insists that he is _suave_ and _cool_ —both embarrassingly un-true.

"My... Uh..." Ronny is butchering his words again. "Uh, my—-I was taken to the doctor this weekend. My _mom_ thought I is _sick_."

Peter shrugs. "So? Were you?"

Meisha is equally curious.

"No! I mean—I was _sweaty_ and all, but—-" He stops, catching sight of Clarice down the opposite way of the hall and he swallows. "I wasn't sick."

Again, Peter shrugs. "So?"

" _So_ —-?! I _wasn't_ sick! And when I went, I...I had to give some _blood_ and I'm afraid that...that... _you know_ , that she'll _find out_." His eyes dart around once, as if he is afraid that someone here would overhear and understand and expose him. "...I think...I think there might be something going on with _it_...with me..."

Meisha blinks, her expression now much softer.

 _"It"_ is his mutation.

MUTATION

mutation is a taboo

WRONG

"Ronny," she begins slowly, choosing to ignore Peter's oblivious stare. "I don't think you can find out by blood. How do you even know that—-"

"How do _you_ know? Maybe _your_ parents can just _pay_ the doctor off!"

Peter's eyes widens at Ronny's sudden flares temper.

A kid pushes past, bumping into his arm and Meisha's backpack, making her leer forward.

She gapes. "Wha—-that's—-that's not true!"

"Oh yeah? We-well how do _you_ know?"

They know the differences, they all do—Meisha's parents are accepting of her powers, of her abilities, mutation, and Ronny's...

Well...

NO

 _"I'd kill it dead the minute I see one of those_ things _walking around!"_

His father had spoken once.

His mother had never protested.

Ronny clenches his hands to fists. "Because—-because—-"

His fists are shaking and Peter's eyes glance around, hoping no one is paying too close attention. Ronny's elevate in emotions is what sets his powers off.

"She could have found..." He suddenly stops, takes in a deep sigh. His shoulders slump and his eyes stare at his shoelaces. "I think it's only a matter of time. Something always goes wrong around Spirit Week anyway, doesn't it?"

Ronny believes he is prone to bad luck

"Ronny..."

"Name _one_ instance that it hadn't."

Neither Meisha nor Peter could and thus don't respond.

"I thought so."

"Ron..." Peter tries this time.

A girl Meisha recognizes from the cheerleading team shoves in between the trio and her girl group sends snarls toward the three from over their shoulder. Peter is the only one to sneer back. Meisha looks to the ground sheepishly.

"...Maybe it's not that big of a deal—-I mean, maybe she won't find out?" Meisha adds quickly, saving herself. "She only thought you were sick, right? Maybe that's all she thought it was..."

The tallest mutant shrugs. His jersey seems a size too large, only because of his wide shoulders and lean torso.

His friend places a hand on his lower arm. He notices her hair is still up in a braided bun and when he asks her about it, she gives a shrug of her own.

Peter fidgets. "So..." Since the tension has calmed down, he thinks it is safe to speak. "Are you two even going to go?"

Meisha's hand falls back to her side. "Go where?"

"Spirit Week. _Duh_. It's so gloomy—changing of subject."

There is a banner hanging vertically on the wall between a row of lockers and a classroom door. The school colors were used in the banner's design and text, and its bright colors make it impossible to miss. Peter hates their school's colors.

Meisha and Ronny exchange glances.

"Maybe," she responds, and this time, Ronny gapes like a goldfish.

"Y-you're going?! With _who_?"

Her thick brows slant downward. "I talk to other people besides _you two_ , you know!"

Peter snickers.

Ronny is still surprised. "Yeah, but _who asked you_?" He is genuinely curious but his words come out harsher than intended.

Meisha's eyes blaze and for a split second, her eyes could have been mistaken as amber in the lighting, turn her into a different person altogether. "Not everyone is as stuck up like _you_ two zeeks." Her glare shoots to the speedy one with the last word though her defense had been meant for the both of them. "I'm going with another friend of mine."

But Meisha is the shy, quiet, awkward girl who _doesn't have_ any other friends.

"Like that friend of yours you told us about but he _never_ showed up?" Peter taunts. In the distance, he sees a familiar head of bushy, dark brown hair and a fluttery feeling sprouts in his chest, diverging his attention.

Ronny doesn't give him much mind.

"No," she defends. "I'm meeting up with her later this week, and we're going to be _matching_ on Spirit Week!"

"Oh, it's a _girl_ now?" Peter folds his arms, cheesing a boastful grin.

The redhead is bristling. "Yes, it's a _girl_. That a problem?!"

Ronny bumps Peter's shoulder. "Man, just leave her alone."

But the speedy mutant grins, waving his hand as if he is actually going to listen. "Yeah, right. That's not the point; it's _who_ asked you. Because..." He rolls his wrist, indicating Meisha, "wouldn't it be a bit _too awkward_ for _you_?"

Meisha wrinkles her nose.

"With all your hair 'nd stuff and that you aren't the most _entertaining_ at parties?" The silver one continues. "Be careful that you and your hair don't _eat_ this one this time, Big Bad," he jokes, and then waves his hands. He is trying to hold in laughter.

Ronny hisses at him again, to which Peter ignores.

"Sorry. This is just so... _funny_. Because let's be honest, it's not expected for someone like _you_ to _actually_ get a _date_. This is funny, no?" He elbows Ronny, chuckling.

" _Eat a dick, Peter!_ "

He freezes, flabbergasted.

Sometimes, Meisha wonders why she is still friends with them? Why she keeps talking with those two half-baked, self-centered _jerks_. _So what_ they all had went to the same schools and been together for over five years now, they are _still jerks_. They never know the right things to say and laugh at the first signs of someone appearing "sensitive." And at times like this, they are never very supportive.

After Meisha's outburst, she earns a few appointed looks from students as she stomps off.

Ronny only stands there, not knowing what to think or say. He absentmindedly rubs the inside of his elbow.

And when Peter grows a wide grin as Mckenzie approaches with her usual entourage, gearing up to dash off towards her where he starts his disappointing charm on her and is greeted with a looks of disdain and disgust, Ronny is the last one to be standing in that spot in the hallway,. And when the bell rings for classes to begin, his hands couldn't stop shaking.

He shouldn't be used to these things.

And he wonders, _why him_?

 ** _. . .  
. . ._**

It's been a few weeks since Rainy last saw Michelle—but it's not like she is _worried_ or anything. In fact, right now, she prefers that she wasn't and couldn't be. There is enough she has to deal with now, along with tutoring that Maximoff boy for weeks now is definitely taking up much of her time. And then there are her parents, and on top of that she has to do her own homework, and also that Sherry likes to talk _so much_ when she's so much as caught a _glimpse_ of Rainy's hair in a crowd.

Rainy also should probably re-bleach the tips of her hair again. It is growing out more and tickles past her shoulders, and the lighter brown bleached tips only reach to the top of her shoulders instead of to the middle of her neck like it had before.

But that is not top priority right now.

Top priority is getting away from this Danny Zuko wannabe because she has a book to return and another to check out and if she doesn't get there in the next ten minutes it will be marked overdue.

It is inside the maze of the school's library bookshelves she is now, in a position that _would have_ probably enraged her. Or irritated her. Instead, she remains impassive and collected.

She's finished that cheesy romance novel under her arm almost a week ago, and honestly, it is one of the worst she's ever read. The writing had been terrible, the so-called cliffhangers were cheaply written, the characterization was mediocre, and the plot and _happily ever after_ ending had been far too predictable. But she guesses that that is what she gets for a novel written in the forties.

She also holds a new book in her hand but hides it behind her back because she knows that Danny Zuko here would ridicule her for it. And here in the school library, she looks from the boy in front of her then off to the side, almost in an eye roll. The boy has an arm on the shelf near her head, trying to cage her in. The boy's name is Marcus.

"…Huh, Rainy?" Marcus reaches almost a full foot taller than she and _looms_. His smirk as he speaks grows.

"Huh what?"

He frowns.

"I know you heard me." She can tell that he is growing irritated, by his tone.

"No." And it is spoken so coldly, so flat, that the boy is dumbfounded, a look that fit him, she thinks.

"Hey, why not?" His eyes widen as a thought suddenly comes to mind then and he frowns. "Oh god, are you a _dyke_? Is that it?" He's at first disgusted and confused. "Because, really, I haven't met any girl that wants to give _this_ up." He gestures to his physique, from his arms to his chest to his Jordan I shoes. "And that's the only reason I can think of—-"

"I don't socialize with the mediocre, cheap, and the egoistical. And it has nothing to do with how many pushups you can do because, really, that doesn't interest me."

She watches shock, then offense, and then anger contort his features. His brows arch downward and that gross way his lips turns in a complete upside-down letter U, and yet she feels nothing and continues staring at him with such a placid look and flat-line to her lips.

"Are you calling me a dumbass?"

"I didn't say that exactly. ...But you did."

His other arm hits the shelf, caging her beneath completely.

"What's your problem?" he snaps.

Rainy shrugs, looking down at the floor. "Like I said: I don't get with guys with sweatbands. And frankly, that's what you wear all the time while you strut around and think that you're entitled more than everyone else. And let me guess...you probably smoke in your parents' basement that's decorated with posters of White Snake and Devo? And you must think that you're some kind of hotshot, don't you? I mean, who else would come up and think that physical force is a way of attaining anything—you know, anyone who doesn't fail simple algebra or is destined to be a wasted dropout."

He doesn't have an immediate comeback for that.

And he grows _angry_.

" _Fuck you, you fucking dyke_!"

Least to say, he doesn't take her answer well.

"You established that presumption already."

He's always angry, always gets angry too quickly—that is one of the reasons Rainy doesn't pay him any mind.

Marcus leans closer then, his lips pulling back in a snarl. "You think you're some type of high shit, huh?"

She doesn't reply immediately—just keeps that cool exterior that has become default.

He is snarling now, completely lost of the suave held earlier. "And by the way, I saw you at the library that weekend, with that fucking weirdo. That herb. But if you'd rather be around _trash_ , oh well." He tries to appear as if he doesn't care, and fails. "Don't think I'm going to let you think that whatever you got going on," he twirls his finger in her direction, "isn't gong to be kept quiet. You're going to crash and burn like the freaking _bitch_ you are."

One last time, he slams his hands on the shelf near her head, effortlessly trying to frighten her. Marcus walks off with hands in his pockets and Rainy sees that his expensive Jordan shoes are scuffed in the back. They aren't the indestructible and expensive he talked them up to be.

She would have felt disgusted.

"Pitiful."

* * *

" _He fucking_ —-How is it something that you just let roll off—-!" Peter stops himself, realizing what he is going to say, realizing that she doesn't necessarily _care_. He cuts off his sentence, pouts, crosses his arms, and leans back in his seat.

Rainy continues flipping through the noble pages with not a wrinkle of emotion on her face. "You've might've heard that Marcus is a brute that has taken too many hits to the head from football, and doesn't think with the right head that's on his shoulders anyway. And frankly, he's a waste of time." She thinks for a moment. "And effort."

"He fucking cornered you—-"

"And I got away, doesn't I?" Her eyes flicker to his direction.

Notebooks and a history textbook are scattered across the long wooden table, open, and forgotten as of now. This is their third meeting this week and lately, Peter notices that Rainy has become much more talkative, even thought most of what she says is like a knife to a throat.

They haven't returned to that particular library since almost being caught and found out by a trio of not-so-nice students from school. Peter remembers how Rainy described in detail the process how their high school lives would unravel and crumble to dust, as she said, if they were ever found out.

"If it isn't such a big deal, then why won't you just say?"

"Because maggots are just for exterminating, not to be discussed over."

Peter's frown deepens.

"Besides," Rainy continues. "If he is really of any importance, than I would have told you when I started to get worried."

"Only that you don't get worried."

She covers her lips with a hand, imaging shock. "You found my loophole! Maybe you are smarter than I originally perceived."

He sneers. "...I'm taking it that isn't a compliment..."

He could take it as he wishes, she replies.

"...We're going to have to work on toning that down."

Her bright eyes snaps toward him. "Work on what?"

"With you and toning that bitchy-ness down."

If she could have smiled, she would have.

Before they left that day, she stops him, hand nuzzling her cheek with that same slightly bored, monotone voice: "Oh, and one thing, Maximoff. We're going to meet up at my place now on. My parents aren't going to be home after school for a few hours and no one from school will know."

He blinks, speechless.

"Alright?"

 ** _. . .  
. . ._**

Ever since that day her mother came storming into the dean's office, Sherry had been looking over her shoulder because she _knows_ that Clarice had heard—how could she _not_ have?—and Sherry is still optimistic that she'd be able to get through the week without running into that _blonde_ _demon_ ; she hopes, for at least this day, and since Spirit Week is so close.

Clarice is the worst right after a conflict. And she has ears _all around_ , and really, Sherry's only mistake is forgetting about lunchtime.

How could she have forgotten lunchtime?

Her vision spins, anxiety constricting her throat.

 _black pause scene_

It hadn't been pretty, no, and she doesn't, hadn't counted the minutes of blissful peace she had before the blonde bully tracks her down through the massive crowd, seemingly effortlessly. How Clarice had purposely sat in the table _right behind_ her with her entourage of populars—her puppets, Rainy has fittingly named them because, really, that's all they were—and she _cackles_ so loudly at jokes about how stupid and _ugly_ heat iron-made curls were on people with red hair and how she couldn't believe someone is _so_ _weak_ to call their _mommy_ to the school.

And Sherry is too nice, too ready to think the best of everyone, too willing to give second chances. But she also has a limit, and she's known Clarice since elementary school and through the abrupt breakup of their friendship before entering middle school.

So when she stands from the table, carton of milk in her hand, Clarice has the _gall_ to take on a look of astonishment and asks, "what do _you_ want?"

And Sherry feels that uncomfortable burning rise up her throat and she clenches her free fist at her side, and for a second, Rainy—who is watching at the opposite end of the circular lunch table—thinks her friend is finally going to throw a punch. But no—instead, Sherry's narrow nostrils flare and she feels her pulse quickening and a sense of almost overwhelming irritation hits her.

" _What's your problem_?" Sherry snaps.

The two boys sitting near Clarice quiet and stare at the redhead with wide eyes.

"What do you mean what's _my_ problem?" Clarice's short cut bobs as her head shakes, the right side held back by a pink hair clip.

"You know _exactly_ what I mean." Sherry's heart races because it's been so long since she's confronted her friend-turned-enemy, and it _terrifies_ her. Because Clarice has backup _fear_ on her side. Because she also knows Sherry's insecurities and secrets shared between eleven year olds. "All you do is talk behind people's back and act like a _coward_."

Clarice's thin eyebrows furrows and then arch, and suddenly Sherry feels such a rush of anger, of annoyance, and she becomes more defensive.

"I'm a coward? _I'm_ not the little _bitch_ that went and cried to her _mommy_ because she couldn't grow up and take a _joke_." The blonde had slowly turned around and is getting to her feet, standing toe to toe to Sherry.

The other wants to take an instinctive step back; she is glad that she doesn't. "When does joking about someone going to go and kill themself a joke?" Sherry's grip around her milk carton tightens and she is starting to shake from her emotions.

One of the boys who had been sitting beside Clarice glance at another girl at the table, this one sitting across from him, and in her own seat, Rainy just blinks and returns to her lunch. This time, her mother had handed her a sandwich her father had bought and hadn't been able to give it to her in person before leaving earlier that morning.

Clarice just huffs, crossing her arms. "Since when are we in _elementary_ again and you have to go get your parents to do _everything_ for you?"

Sherry glares. Her thumb rims the folded, sealed opening of the carton.

Rainy wonders if she is going to pour it one the other.

"What? Are you going to go _cry_ again, Sherry?"

She doesn't say anything at first and is too intent on those closest at Clarice's table watching, staring, giggling.

"What? You're going to _go back to mommy_?" The blonde taunts. She steps forward.

Sherry falters. She takes one back.

Clarice smirks.

" _I'm_ not a coward, and we've had this conversation, when? Back in _sixth grade_? When you came _crying_ because...isn't it that your crush ended up liking _me_ instead? Or is it because I had more friends than you, perhaps because people like _me_ better? And not a little _gremlin_?"

Sherry doesn't reply.

And people are laughing, snickering, giggling—she is sure.

"What? Nothing to say?" Clarice's head tilts to the side, feigning concern. "Hmm, typical. Now, if you don't mind, _I'm_ going to sit over here with the _actual_ cool kids and not some knock off excuse of what you got, all full of weirdoes and freaks and those uncool—but that's right up your alley, isn't it?" She snickers.

And that is it; that's all that Clarice had to say. She only has to lean in, give that look with her bright blue eyes and once again, Sherry is back in fifth grade with everyone looking down at her and laughing and teasing and Clarice just taking it in and _laughing_ with them and hurts. It really, really hurts.

Sherry is too nice sometimes, and this is a perfect example. So close she came that she almost, could have called the other out and called her a bitch, called her faults, called her lies, but Sherry. She is too afraid.

Most times, Sherry is too afraid and hesitates too often.

 ** _. . .  
. . ._**

Wanda doesn't like confrontation. She can be compared to a mouse about how quiet she gets, especially when in public. She stays to herself and she rarely interacts unless absolutely necessary, like for a class assignment or called during a lecture. That's how she's managed to remain unknown and off the hit-list of bullies. But because of her tight lips and signature red jacket, she hasn't managed to fade into the background _completely_. Wanda is moderately known because of these things, and those who have talks to her on few occasions say that she's "a nice girl, I guess," that she "doesn't speak much," and "doesn't ever really cause any trouble." In fact, if you were to ask all those people who possessed those same opinions of her, none would ever suspect Wanda of being one to cause a scene. She goes about her day in fragmented routine: she gets her books in the morning, goes immediately to class, and never converses in the halls. At lunch, no one finds her because she'll usually either be under the bleachers near the soccer field or in the back of the library with a packed bologna sandwich.

Wanda reads, but not so much as Rainy. _Wanda_ reads out of interest, not necessity. And really, when first glancing at the mutant, she appears nowhere intimidating or even particularly brave. Because she's not meant to be remembered or has a spellbinding face. She isn't _gorgeous_ and she isn't important—heck, most of her peers don't even know that she has a twin brother. She uses her hair and the hood of her jacket to hide herself because if no one knows her face, they wouldn't be influenced to cause problems. Because if no one knows her face, she can't be blamed _if_ and _when_ her powers lash out on accident.

Because Wanda Maximoff is so unknown, Michelle thought she would be such an easy target. And as she enters history class and catches sight of the unmistakable red hood, Michelle smiles, knowing that this would be an effortless opportunity. Because Wanda Maximoff is weird and a loner who very likely doesn't have friends anyway, and she wouldn't talk unless pressed, and there is no way a mouse like her would ever speak up and out. And Michelle really just needs someone to agree now and ask questions later.

Michelle smiles, gripping the strap of her book bag that is slugged over her right shoulder. She slides into the desk in front of the mutant. "Heyyy! Wanda, is it?"

The mutant looks up from the book in front of her. She had been studying before class started. Her eyes dart to the side for a second, thinking Michelle is one of those who only wanted to borrow a pencil she would never honestly return. She keeps a blank face, and doesn't answer. Her mouth has a slight frown to it, her brown hair swooping over one eye and tumbling out from either side of her hood.

"Say... I've been trying to find this girl for the longest." Michelle drew invisible claw marks on the other's desk. "Do you know a Rainy? She's in our year. Rainy Capulet?"

Wanda's brows crinkle, and her eyes squint as she feigns cluelessness. She initially thinks this girl is here to mock her, to tease her because of some lie or rumor that has begun circling. This school loves to do that—spreading false words. She's seen it tear friendships apart, and romance, and create the ugliest of enemies.

"Why?" Wanda finally speaks.

"I just said why."

Wanda hesitates. Maybe Rainy doesn't _want_ to be found, if Michelle has been looking so much..."What do you want?"

"Wow. _Rude_." But it's obvious that Michelle isn't fazed and doesn't care enough to leave. "Do you know a girl named Rainy or not?" she repeats.

And again, Wanda squints, suspicious.

"Why?"

"Because," Michelle puts on her prized smile. "I heard that you spoke to her and she's been stabbing people in the back."

Again, Wanda hesitates to answer. "Yeah...I did talk to her not too long ago..."

"Ok, good! Can you tell me what happened? Did she hit you, yell at you...?"

"Um, no..." Wanda then thinks. "Why is that important?"

Michelle rolls her neck. "Because, she not only stabbed me and some of my friends in the backs, but she also stole my best friend's boyfriend," Michelle lies. She only needs a reason for this mousey girl to reveal why Rainy hasn't shown up for the past three days.

Wanda's lips make a small "ohh." Her eyes lower back to her desk.

Michelle has always had her suspicions about her odd friend Rainy, and she thinks what is better than to go the closest to her source? It is just a shame Michelle has to lie so terribly to do so.

"So, you see, right? Can you tell me what happened? What'd she say? Who is she with?"

Wanda looks Michelle in the eyes, and she is honestly confused. "You think she's skipping?"

"I'm thinking of a lot of thinks that she could be doing. And I'm just trying to find a friend and stop her before anything bad happens." Michelle brushes a dark brown curl back behind her ear and tucks it under the scarf she wears as a headband. "So, you gonna tell me?"

Wanda's lips tighten, and inside she debates, conflicted. But then she remembers what her brother said and the fact that she personally has never really _cared_. About his personal decisions or this Rainy girl. She doesn't know why her brother insists on being so secretive and why he is such an _ass_ about her. There is nothing good about Rainy that Wanda can see, and personally, Wanda thinks that the girl is nothing but a magnet for bad luck—and Wand knows bad luck! If this girl, Michelle, knows something about Rainy that would get her out of Wanda's hair, then maybe spilling a _little_ information won't hurt anyone _too_ badly.

Wanda looks back up. The bell for class to sound in a few minutes, so she had better talk fast.

"Yeah, I do."

 ** _. . .  
. . ._**

Mckenzie wouldn't ever call herself stuck-up— _of course_ she wouldn't—but she _does_ likes her high status on the social pyramid of Sherbrooke High. She likes the attention, her friends, the perks, the ego boost from shoving over those ranked beneath her. She gets a kick out of knocking over chessboards and _accidentally_ bumping into others at lunchtime, and _accidentally_ spilling marinara sauce and orange juice on their shirts or slacks. She likes all of it, and swears that it kept her curly hair voluptuous. But most of all, she likes that she's managed to attract the attention of the school's quarterback, Travis Montgomery. Because the boy is a golden haired, blue eyed, tall glass of almond milk with a chiseled jaw and a physique she could watch run the track for days. He has biceps she likes to cling to when she lifts her onto his back and presses her fingertips into when they're in the backseat of his car. And she knows that if she had been in any other social group, none of this would have ever been possible.

Mckenzie loves her school life and admits that it still doesn't excuse her from some of her out-of-school duties—such as her homework.

At lunch she is never alone. And if she answers a question wrong in class, almost never did anyone taunt her for it, fearing. She and Clarice have the school eating out the palms of their hands, and _everyone_ admires them, hates them, or wants to be them.

They were The Populars, of course.

But this—this is the first time that someone _likes_ her. Like, actually, _actively_ made an effort to pursue her. And at first she found it amusing. Then entertaining by dragging him along. And now she hates it.

She hates the attention. She hates his loser, dopey smile and the way he presses _so hard_ and insists. She hates how he clings, how he's like that one spect of glitter you can't pick off. And Mckenzie hates the way her friends would now give her those knowing, mocking smirks and snicker whenever he would walk up as if he truly thought he is all-that. It's sad that he really thinks that he has a chance, and that he keeps coming again and again and again and her friend tease and mock her and she smiles about it in good nature, but—

Mckenzie is embarrassed about it.

That's why she had asked Travis to take care of the troubling Maximoff. She finds pleasure that he is just as uncomfortable about Peter as she, and how her boyfriend is very willing to make Peter Maximoff take a dive in the dumpster behind the cafeteria.

But that had been three weeks ago.

And the damn boy is back, still tightly wound and energetic and so damn determined that Mckenzie freezes for a second when seeing him approach once again.

It is in the hallways during class and he had been on a restroom break and for water. That sly grin had begins growing across his face when he sees her. That heart dropping, stomach twisting feeling of hers returns and yet, she steadies her gaze forward and holds her chin high. She'd be damned if she'd let some lower level geek make _her_ feel uncomfortable.

He waves. "Hey, 'Kenzie!"

She walks straight, determined to ignore him.

What kind of over-confident, tacky, der-brain did he think he is?

Her chin is high and he approaches closer. They were just going to pass, she told herself—or at least, she thinks, wishes. To be honest, she doesn't know because so far, all her known tactics have failed and he is unpredictable of what would make him stop coming back again and again.

She doesn't let out a yelp when Peter hooks an arm around her waist, tugging her close, but some high-pitched sound does come from her, and she becomes enraged. _How_ dare _he?!_

"Hey, 'Kenzie," he repeats, smiling.

She snaps her head toward him and orders, " _don't_ call me that!" She's bristling like a cat, and he smiles even wider.

"Why've you been ignoring me?"

"Don't—-!" She shoves away from him, breaking from his arm. "Don't _touch_ me, _nerd_!"

But he isn't fazed.

"Oh, I haven't— _yet_."

Her brows shoot up. She's appalled. She's offended, disgusted.

"I'm going to get Travis on you again if you don't leave me _alone_!"

"C'mon, doll—-"

" _Look_ , I'm not your _doll_ , you asswipe—-"

"Alright, 'Kenzie." Peter is smirking again, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Mckenzie's gaze follows him as he makes a semicircle around her. Her hands clutch her chest, and running through her mind is just _how_ she could have attracted the attention of someone like _him_. He is _weird_ , annoying, and near the bottom of the social pyramid.

Peter walks around her, his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. He dips his head once, and then speaks. "Ok. But don't try and forget what happened after that football game when we played against Frigon High. I hadn't told anyone, but I doubt _Travis_ wouldn't be too pleased." And he has on a wide, mischievous smile growing because he knows that she has no other corners to run out from. If she wants to play blackmail and threats, then he could too.

Mckenzie fidgets, ignores the hammering of agitation in her chest and the sweating of her palms. Her brows furrows in brief confusion at his comment, then—

"Don't call me 'Kenzie," she snaps.


	21. 18: riposte (Episode 8)

**_A/N:_** _**so I looked at the old chapters and there are eight more chapters until this is first installment is done (finally!)**_

* * *

"Ah, you're earlier than expected."

Actually, Pietro's late. After having yet another argument with his twin sister which, in turn reminded him about this meeting in the first place, and followed by a scolding from Marya, he had barely made it out the house. Only thanks to his abilities was he able to arrive at this meeting place right on the dot. He had been even more surprised that it was a house, and that this is _her home_ , and also that Rainy hadn't lied about the location—but it's not like he is going to tell her any of that—and knocked at the girl's front door.

This is the day Pietro went over to Rainy's house for the first time.

"—And wipe your feet will you?" she retorts without looking behind, leading him through a short hall hung with family framed portraits and awards. A dog is in one of the photographs, though there isn't evidence of one in the house.

The small home is quite quaint, he'd admit, and not the type he'd figure a girl like _her_ would come from.

It's been a good three months since this all started. Two months since their meetings began and this is the closest encounter he's ever had with the shorter brunette. He's always heard things about her, talks about her, rumors of butt-hurt rejection and glorified acclaims, of her biting remarks that rub the wrong way; how the girl started track in fifth grade and then had to quit because of a mysterious "illness."

Now, Pietro knows better. He knows it had been no illness, it never had been. But still, he can't help but wonder...

They're at the dinner table now, one of two in the house. Rainy tells that the other, more decorated table is only used for holidays and special business occasions. Her parents aren't home either.

Rainy writes notes on pages in her notebook. Pietro isn't paying attention and his interest has wondered to the living room. Her finger twitches, cutting on the edge of the page—she doesn't flinch, she doesn't feel it. She would need a Band-Aid later, he notes. A strand of dark brown hair intercepts his vision and Pietro clears his throat.

This is a girl that he'd expect to have been brought up by bulls and wolves and the tough, gritty streets out in the city—not some opulent, flame-stitch patterned suburban home.

She had said that the pictures on the wall made her sick and to not look at them. Pietro had rolled his eyes and looked anyway.

She scribbles something else on her notebook paper.

"Say, Rainy..."

Her writing stops. Their class is three chapters until finishing the assigned novel now, and she has stated how she wants to go over the chapters from the two weeks before as a review before their test and essay.

"Where are your folks?"

Her bright eyes shift to his direction, and they're cut and slant and remind him of a cat's. He swallows, deciding to add a wisecrack comment as a sort of safety net.

"So, like, if I smoke a doobie they won't come charging in screaming bloody murder, will they?" He chuckles. It doesn't sound confident.

She pauses.

"Actually, my mother has an eighth gram baggie in her top drawer if you'd want me to get you some."

"Uh—-"

 _Drugs_

He's caught off guard.

And she had said that so _calmly_!

"What of it?" She blinks.

"It's just that—-you said that so...calm, and I...!"

"Do not turn this into a schmaltz fest. You asked and I answered," she replies, tone monotone but words still holding a jagged edge. "Don't get that mixed up; my personal affairs are not something I like to discuss, and it's not in any of your immediate interest." Her eyes turn back to the paper she's writing. "Do you want to smoke, or not?"

He sees that she's writing answers to math homework.

Pietro frowns. She's getting the answers wrong.

He hesitates. "How do you know it's not in my immediate interest?"

"Because you're... " She pauses as she thinks of the words to use. "You know..." Then she lies again with a straight face, like about her lack in memory. She then insults him, and: "This is not your responsibility. It's none of your concern. And, besides, someone like you would never be able to grasp a concept outside of Blondie, marijuana, and wherever to wreak havoc next."

 _Ouch_.

Pietro scowls. "I thought we weren't going to keep being rude," he snaps.

Rainy finishes the equation on her paper and then moves on to the next. "Since how long have you has that improbable request? Whether someone chooses to express themselves is entirely up to their being, and is not something you can particularly change. To assume that would bring you terrible disappointment. And don't try any tricks 'cause I'm no different—it's not like you can really change anything, anyway." She types into her calculator, writes down the answer. "The past is done."

"I'm not talking about anyone—I'm talking about you, and—-"

"And that's where you will keep being disappointment." He watches her erase her answer and delete the information from the calculator. "I told you: I can't change. It's improbable—impossible. Sad, maybe, I was told at least. So make sure to get comfy so you could can get better acquainted with my mother."

"That's only if you've never tried. I'd bet that you've never even tried!"

"You're right. I haven't."

"Exactly! So how do you even know?"

"Don't spend the money 'til you've robbed the bank."

"What?"

"That means don't assume that you'll get the things you want until you have them. You can't be sure of anything until it happens. Have you really never heard of that before?"

There is a pause.

"Of course you haven't..."

Pietro grows frustrated. "What does _that_ mean?"

And Rainy blinks. "It's not important."

He grunts, demanding more detail. So she replies that she doesn't want him to override his mental capacity.

Rainy Capulet is hard-boiled, brash, and bruising.

Pietro calls her a bitch.

"Don't keep asking questions to something that doesn't concern you. You might not like the answer."

His jaw is offset, molars grinding.

She is rude, unforgiving unless she has to be, and unapologetic. He marvels at how she doesn't need him, or anyone.

"Do you want a drink? You look parched."

And under an hour of attempting to do homework, she shows him the kitchen.

"I'm not having my father find a half-dead pot-smoker on our floor passed out from hunger when he gets back. Your stains would never be able to come out the carpet."

"I don't think that's how it works—-"

"Ah, I guess you're right."

He pauses. "I thought you didn't care about what your father does or thought."

"I don't. That still hasn't changed."

At least she isn't a bad hostess—definitely not the best out there, not nearly one of the best—but she isn't _bad_.

 _ **. . .** _**_  
. . ._**

 _red pause scene_

This house is larger than the one Rainy grew up in, and it has a terrible view. When she was smaller, she had a clear view of the moon, which would illuminate her room at night and provides light to read after her bedroom lights were cut off. Now, however, power lines and street poles obscure the view.

It's growing dark outside.

Pietro should have to been heading home by now.

"My mother got roped into this sorta cult group when she and my father fell apart."

There have been TV spots aired about her father's campaign; it's no doubt that everyone in school has seen the ads at least once. They're a very different dynamic than the one Rainy is telling him about.

"But they look so happy on TV—-"

"They're supposed to. That's the concept of campaigning."

 _black pause scene_

"Anyways, it was around the age of ten I is when I found my mother with another man in her room. I didn't see his face—not this one—but it had been the third time I was woken at night. And I remember—-I remember seeing the two of them sitting on my parent's bed, talking, luckily at the moment. But still. I didn't say anything. Even today she probably doesn't know that I know. But my father took it well—at least I thought he did. The coward—he just seems to ignore it, not even trying to intervene."

"Your parents," Pietro asks.

"Those two people you saw in the pictures—the deadbeat and the asshole in the suit."

 _Man in a suit and briefcase, slicked back, umber brown hair._

 _Candid of a woman in an unbuttons housecoat, weed cigarette between her fingers_

Hours ago when Rainy met Pietro at the door of her parents' house, there has been pictures lining the hallway wall there.

"Don't look at them," she had ordered.

He rolled his eyes and hadn't listened.

It's late. The sky is a vary of orange, pink, and yellow, indigo rapidly creeping across the horizon. Marya wouldn't mind if he missed dinner again, because he's done so before and there is almost always leftovers, but he hadn't called.

Earlier in the evening, the two teens sat at the table in the dinning room. Rainy turned a page in the novel they are assigned to read for class. "What place are you at," she had asked, not looking up, wearing a rather bored expression.

Pietro didn't respond. He sat cross-legged, fingers digging into his knees; he took a daring breath.

"I gotta ask," he breathed. "You said you can't feel anything, right? So what exactly...how exactly does—- _why_ are you so weird?"

Rainy blinked. She doesn't answer for some time.

"That's something you don't need to concern yourself with," she has said in the beginning, wanting to appear cryptic, but he soon got her to speak. And she began telling him about her parents.

 _black pause scene_

Now, Rainy stares at the open novel in front of her, eyes glazed and far in thought as she recalls the memory of how her unfortunate condition began.

"It wasn't long until after that she roped me into her plans," Rainy continues about her mother. "But... I found out that my parents weren't on disagreeing terms like I had thought, and they weren't getting a divorce. But the group that my mother got involved with—the one where she gets her lovers and weed from—she wanted me to become a part of it. And when I refused, it all backfired. That's when I met a shaman at a carnival and wished it all to go away, that I wouldn't have to feel my mother's disappointment anymore. It was such a cruel irony. So be careful of how you word your wishes, Maximoff."

There's a heavy pause between them.

"You're speaking really lighthearted about all this." He doesn't know whether to become concerned or—

Or? Who is he kidding?

"Well how do you expect me to reply? To scream or grow angry? Sorry, I don't have that ability or luxury, like you, when you confronted your sister the other day—"

When Pietro had shoved his sister's back against the lockers  
When he found out that she revealed to some girl—  
Michelle—  
That he and Rainy had been hanging out after school, studying  
And Wanda's eyes had glowed red.

 _YELLING_

They had almost yells in the quiet hallway in the middle of classes

"—Or when you apparently tried to win over Mckenzie," Rainy continues. "You like her don't you? They talk about you. A lot, her group does."

 _"Don't call me 'Kenzie!"_

She adds, "I'm afraid I don't think she's your type though."

 _How does she know about that?_

"Who's to say I should trust anything of what _you_ _think_?"

"Hm.. Good point."

Silence fills the room again. This is probably the longest time they have been this quiet around each other.

Rainy looks to the clock high on the wall; one of her parents should be getting home in the next half-hour.

Her eyes roll over to his direction. "Why do you like her though?"

"That's none of your business," he snaps, using her words and tone. "Why should I tell _you_ anything?"

Rainy blinks. "I dunno." She pauses, thinking. "It's just that...if you are...if you're planning on at least trying to snag a girl's heart, you shouldn't do it when her current boy toy is around."

Pietro hesitates. "Boy toy...?"

"Yes. Do you really not know? Mckenzie never keeps her relationships serious. She's a busy woman. ...That is a joke."

Pietro quiets.

"If you want any girl, if you want to woo any girl—no matter how absurd—first, you'd have to be confident. Show her what you mean and—-"

"Why should I listen to you? Bet you got that all from some book, didn't you?"

"Yes I did." Rainy doesn't miss a beat.

He scoffs. "Exactly."

"Exactly what?"

He jabs a finger in her direction. "Why should I listen to advise from someone so inexperienced—-"

"Don't point at me. I don't want to be infects with your virgin."

He is appalled. "That's not even a thing!"

"And what made you think I'm inexperienced?" she questions. "I have more experience than you, certainly. I've had more dates than you've probably been kissed, which I'd guess hasn't been since, what, third grade?"

"How can you even do anything when you can't _feel_?"

"You don't need emotions to have experience."

Pause.

 _Well_.

"Well I'm pretty sure my Kenzie isn't going to be like any of that," he insists rather confident.

Rainy muses, "I wouldn't be too sure."

And he crosses his arms and that snarky smirk returns. "I don't care what you think, _Juliet_. Just watch."

Rainy looks down to her notebook page full of math problems in front of her. She is almost certain that most of them are wrong.


	22. 19: spirit day (Episode 8)

_**A/N: There is suggestive, vague nsfw writing near the ending of this chapter.**_

* * *

Today is the day.

Sherbrooke High is a boisterous, vibrant, spirited mess, and the students are not holding back. The campus ripples and it's animated, and _alive_. It' as if the school colors had been spilled over the campus, and confetti had already begun littering the lawns. Students wear bandanas, cut-up shirts and acid washed, ripped denim, and face-paint as they mingle, gossip, and plan activities for the later evening though it had only been two class periods into the day.

This is the first day of Spirit Week at Sherbrooke High. This is the most energetic day, students and staff at their most high.

Girls hook their arms around those of their boyfriends. Friends come in matching shirts or jewelry or body paint. The janitors take extra long breaks in the lounge, listening to the radio. Teachers that aren't in the mood scold and complain words to their students that travel through one ear and out the other.

In the hall, Meisha stares up at the painted banner hanging and she grips the strap of her bookbag tighter. The banner had lost one of its six pieces of duct tape holding it to the ledge, and it's hand-painted words echo in a thunder in her mind: _Bring a date for spirit week!_

 _Bring a date!_

A date...

A date

That girl—Sherry—had brought Meisha along last weekend to go shopping. Thus, the mutant is now dressed in a white shirt with _SPIRIT_ painted across her chest, a colored scrunchie hair-bow, and face-paint on her cheeks. She hopes Sherry is in matching attire. She hopes that she hasn't been forgotten, ignored.

Today is the day and she hopes she isn't going to be stood up. Today is supposed to be the turning point of her young teenage life.

Her hair is up in a braided bun.

And she is so afraid.

Meisha's hair twitches, an agitated coiled snake.

Sherry runs up to meet her after next class. She is, in fact, in almost exactly matching clothes, her strawberry blonde hair wild and teased, tiny colored star clips in her hair. Finally, Meisha eases, attaching to Sherry's hip.

 _ **. . .** _**_  
. . ._**

Tuesday

Wanda has been avoiding her brother since that day they crossed in-between classes and he slammed her against the lockers and her fingertips glowed and his face turned red. She avoids the halls she knows he usually goes down, and she continues to not eat lunch in the cafeteria—not like all of this really affects her routine, but still. At dinner, she doesn't even looks at him. She is sure that Marya has caught on that there is some kind of tension between the twins, but so far only their youngest sister has spoken on it.

Marya continues on with the expectation that whatever happens between the twins is their business; she wouldn't pry unless she feels that she absolutely _has_ to, and suspects that without, it could endanger others.

Marya interferes between the twins regularly, actually.

Peter runs away and Wanda doesn't tell about their rude meeting in the hallways.

 _Peter slammed Wanda's back against the lockers._  
He had been angry, obviously  
because Wanda had told about him and Rainy

 _Why?_

 _"But why is he so mad?"_

Wanda doesn't dress for Spirit Week. She and her brother continue the charade that they have no idea who the other is.

She has Michelle for third, fourth, and fifth period class and she hasn't figured out completely _how_ she is going to confront the girl, mainly about what was spoken. She thinks that it's regret that motivates her; it's repentance that scratches at her gut and her conscious. Wanda didn't exactly say anything about or against it.

Once, Wanda witnesses her brother getting body painted on the outside bleachers by a tall brunette boy whom Wanda vaguely recognizes. There are whoops and hollers by the boys track team as they jog passed, here for practice. Her brother and the other young man are teased. Wanda turns her head.

Michelle had said something about a party at Clarice's boyfriend's house. Wanda isn't sure if this is an invite or not. The dark skinned girl smiles, her pink lips curling and arms outreaching. She speaks that she is starting to warm up to the mutant; thus, Wanda forces a returning, stressed smile.

Before P.E., Wanda runs into Troy outside the gym and they exchange flustered apologies and blushing grins and he compliments her hair, and she to him about his play in basketball, and she swears that he's sending some kind of body signals and motions with that smirk of his and baby blue eyes and the roll of his shoulders, and Wanda almost runs into the glass double doors.

 _ **. . .** _**_  
. . ._**

Wednesday

Ronny doesn't return that day either. There's something mentioned about him being sick, Peter thinks his mother had said—he can't remember exactly. He hadn't really paid attention.

Ronny's probably chickened out again, the mutant thinks, since the countdown of Spirit Week has began. And Ronny's mother, Mrs. De Gallo, is likely exaggerating again about her son's health by making it sound graver than it actually is, Peter doesn't doubt.

In fact, the tall boy is still lying under his blankets at one right now. His mother is at his bedside pressing the back of her hand to his forehead Forces a thermometer between his tight lips. And Ronny feels so _cold_ —almost too cold than he should—even though his three blankets have been tucks under his chin for over two hours.

He hasn't woken up either. When Ronny's mother had entered his bedroom, shaking him to wake for school, Ronny had merely grunted something and didn't open his eyes. After realizing her son is indeed not playing some sort of prank to skip, that's when she became concerned.

The doctor is on the other end of the phone cradled to her ear, and according to the thermometer, he body temperature is about seventy-two degrees. The doctor stresses to rush him in immediately.

She doesn't realize that seventy-two is the temperature the house's A/C is set on.

 ** _._**

Rainy knows that she is considered plain and lackluster. That her... _condition_ causes her to come a beat late with jokes and to take a day off when she cuts herself because she couldn't find the open wound until minutes or sometimes _hours_ later, when there's blood trickling down her forearm or finger because it's not healing quickly enough.

Rainy knows that her condition gets in the way. She knows that it's an inconvenience. Like when Sherry came up to her, asking why Rainy isn't dressed for Spirit Week by now and why she has no desire to participate. She can't _exactly_ explain why she isn't in the _spirit_ —but Sherry figures her own satisfying conclusion about the other being a party-pooper—and the brunette has to conduct some type of _lie_ again. Rainy's excuse is that she's never in the spirit.

Sherry is disappointed but says that she hopes her friend will come around.

Rainy thinks about that night at the carnival, when she didn't word her wish favorably and it turned against her.

She knows that her excuses are running out, that her clock is ticking until her secret gets out. She could be teased, persecuted, treated as an anomaly. Her life could end and she would not get the opportunity to fix it.

 _ **. . .** _**_  
. . ._**

Thursday

Rainy doesn't see Michelle again until close to lunch. She isn't wearing any school colors that don't happen to be made in the tie-dye t-shirt she wears, and a girl at Michelle's side almost _sneers_ when the two walk up to each other. And unexpectedly, there is an added member to Michelle's usual threesome of girl post of friends. Rainy doesn't know what to make of it when she stops in front of Michelle and her friends—Rainy's friends too if things had ever gone differently—and she spots the famed red hood and pare of deep brown eyes flanking Michelle, Wanda's chocolate hair pouring out from the sides of her jacket.

Rainy would have sneered if she could have done so correctly.

Michelle smirks and tells that she's made a new friend, and since Rainy is such a party-pooper, had asked Wanda here—nicknamed _Red_ by Michelle herself—if she'd like to go with them to the annual Spirit Week house party. Also, because one of Michelle's friends want a partner.

Wanda is already wearing a plain white shirt that one of the other girls, a red-bone named Janet, scribbled on the front in Sharpie marker to match the rest's.

"But, I mean, you can come too, of course, Rainy. Like, if you want."

Her eyes shift. Mentally, she calculates, predicts their outcomes as well as all of those possible with her _condition_.

She declines.

 _ **. . .** _**_  
. . ._**

Friday

In fifth period history with Mr. Green, Clarice stands in her chair and announces that the location of this school year's Spirit Week house party is at her boyfriend's house.

"And you all are invited! Unless you're some _herb_ or _weirdo_ , of course."

A girl from her clique snickers. One of the boys who trails behind, raises his eyebrow, worried, expecting.

Clarice sighs and pouts. "I guess _some_ burnouts can come too."

Now, the boy relaxes.

And word spread like wildfire, as expected.

Michelle invites Wanda to meet up at the McDonald's on 23rd in order to ride with them.

The party is held at Clarice's boyfriend's house, by much—and quite easy—convincing from Clarice. Everyone is there, everyone whom she and Mckenzie deems important and _popular_ enough. Meaning, a third of the school is there.

The parents of Clarice's boyfriend are gone on a business trip and should be back in three days. And that night, everyone arrives still dressed in school spirit.

Speakers bump out loud bass and teenagers are dancing, smoking, playing card games—poker, monopoly, Black Jack—and the air is hot and vicid and Clarice breaths in the static intoxicated air and gets a high knowing that everyone is there because of her, and that most of everyone there _adores_ her.

Searching for her boyfriend, the doorbell rings.

Clarice rises from the beaten, sunken couch and sashays over to the door, her sparkling, frilly skirt and glitter on her face gleams in the low lighting. She wears rings on each hand and her blonde hair is fashioned with a thick piece of fabric tied into a loose bow. She opens the front door to a pizza deliveryman holding six large boxes. She flashes a charming smile and slips the dollar bills into his front breast pocket, giving it a quick tap. The pizza will be gone in twenty minutes.

Today is _the_ Spirit Day, the Friday of Spirit Week and is the biggest party of the school year. It always is.

In the living room, a girl jumps to the beat of the music, a half empty red Solo cup in one hand, and she's too drunk to realize when a splash spills onto her platinum hairdo. Through the window of a spare room, nerds sneak inside; some succeed, some are caught, one speeds through at superhuman speed as the front door closes and the pizza man leaves.

On the "dance floor," Mckenzie shimmies beside a guy in a letterman jacket and sunglasses. The song changes and the beat increases, and the boy asks her if she wants to go to the back to smoke.

Of course she said yes.

Because this boy is cute and he can dance—no, he is _handsome_ , and his physique is one that she is _craving_ to feel under her fingertips, feel flush against her chest.

Mckenzie trails her finger down his jaw. "Say, why do you wear those glasses inside? You look..." She pauses, looks like she is about to burp. " _Stupid._ " She laughs, thinks she's clever.

"Because you ladies would die from my good looks," he responds, sliding the glass door open to another room occupied by other stoners.

She sways; she has had too much to drink.

The boy whose name she's already forgotten, hands her rolled marijuana. They go through two when he tries to kiss her.

"You know I have a boyfriend, right?" she stops him.

"Is that going to be a problem?"

Mckenzie thinks for a moment, the best way she could through her intoxication, which is not very much. "Nope," she shrugs, popping the 'p.'

The room inhabits four others, one being another girl who walks out a minute into their flirting.

And Mckenzie's vision is hazy; the boy with the bloodshot eyes and smoke in his mouth is leaning closer, closer...

He's kissing her. Mckenzie shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be here. She should be at home and in bed, her homework done, warm blankets surrounding her. She shouldn't be kissing boys she doesn't know in dim lighting and narcotic residue still on their lips. She shouldn't be kissing boys who wouldn't give a damn about her come the morning and after the hangover. She shouldn't be surrounded by people she doesn't really know. But Mckenzie Shabotz will be fine, because she's _popular_ and she feels like she can have everything she wants.

But she doesn't know any better, certainly not _now_. Like, she doesn't expect the boy to be so rough with his hand on her arm when she decides to leave. Nor, him trying to trap her inside the small den-room with an arm blocking the doorway, threatening her.

She fusses, and then whines, but the boy's mind is cloudy and he is selfish. She's only lucky that a tall teen walks by, one wearing worn silver sneakers and hair glistening in the dim lights and ganja roach between his fingers.

The boy trapping her is grabbed by the shoulders and shoved across the room with superhuman strength and precision.

 _ **. . .** _**_  
. . ._**

Sherry takes her first two shots of hard liquor around 11:20 that night. The alcohol's smell is strong and it burns going down, but turning into smooth warmth as it hits her stomach.

She slams the glasses to the tabletop and sticks her tongue out to show that she's drank it all, to prove for the heck of it that she's done it like a trooper and can party with the lot of them.

Sherry doesn't smoke, isn't too flashy, and this is what she _can_ do, what she chooses to do.

Her date, her Spirit Week partner turned down the invite for the party—not that Meisha had been _invited_ but Sherry was going to bring her anyway—but had told that partying is not really _her thing_ and opted to stay at home.

Sherry then challenges a boy who stands a foot taller and smelling of mint gum to a drinking contest.

 _ **. . .** _**_  
. . ._**

Outside, it's too dark to be out alone. -Rainy stares at the posters and flyers stapled to the wooden post at the bus stop. _Balzani's Eccentric Carnival_ one of them reads in loud, bold text. Tickets are bought on the other side of town, the smaller print reads.

She's been there. Though the last time had been with Sherry and another friend of theirs, and it hadn't ended well—when she didn't word her wish favorably and it turned against her.

 _"I met a sort shaman at a carnival. He cursed me and stripped me of the ability to feel as well as my emotions and some of my memories."_

 _"...wished it all to go away, that I wouldn't have to feel my mother's disappointment anymore. It was such a cruel irony. So be careful of how you word your wishes, Maximoff."_

Rainy looks to at the bus fair in her hand. The next showing at the carnival will be in two hours. She could catch this coming bus and make it in time.

 _ **. . .** _**_  
. . ._**

 _black pause scene_

"Hey, I know _you_. You're—you're whazz-yer-name... You're kinda cute~" Mckenzie fists the shirt of the tall teen she's leaning into, her head bobbing slightly. She's out of the den-room now, her capture saving her from a possible ugly situation, so, fittingly, she's putting all of her weight onto his side, hand grazing the design on his t-shirt. "You...what's your name...you're in my—my history class! I know you!"

Peter stares, surprised. "Cute?" The bass pulsates through the air, Mckenzie's gaze wavers, and his stomach clenches. "Yeah, sure, why not."

"Thanks. And... _Thanks_ with that _jerk_ back there. He is a real bohunk." She ruffles her already teased dark umber hair. "When you came in—that—that was _fast_. Are you always that fast? That is something. Do...do you fuck really fast? That'd be kinda fun..." Her brows rise and she bites her bottom lip, giggling.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" He assumes that he knows what she wants.

"Oh, I definitely would. A girl could really...really, um, really find that kind of a turn on..." A chuckle bubbles up as she looks up at the boy. He feels her hand slide up, down, over his shirt, clearly feeling him up.

Peter licks his lips. He takes a drag from the marijuana roach in his free hand, the other slung around Mckenzie's shoulders. He pulls her closer.

"I'm Mckenzie...but you already know that, don't you?" She chuckles. "Duh. Well of course you do because _I'm popular_. But my best friends call me 'Kenzie. Or," she hooks her fingers around his shirt collar, tugging him down a bit, "those _real_ _special_ do." He appears surprised and she finds it amusing. "So, I know what _you_ can do, but you have no idea what _I_ can do." She smirks, her mouth reaching his earlobe. "This should be interesting..."

"So..." He takes another drag. "Am _I_ special, _'Kenzie_?"

"That depends..."

"On what?"

"On... _things_. But you're, like, kinda the cutest guy here," she coos, wrapping her arms around his neck. "And I like cute guys."

"Well, yeah, duh. I'm the best." He's smirking.

She still has her finger curled around his shirt collar, and upon his remark, she chuckles, tugs a bit further. Her eyes flicker to his throat and lower for a second as she begins walking backwards, dragging him along. "Oh, big guy. ...I actually find that pretty _attractive_."

"Oh really? Is that so?"

"Yeah. _But_ —could you be able to compensate, speedy?" Her words continue to slur.

They're stumbling toward one of the hallways, the echo of the music fading and those of other voices drift in from the extra rooms they pass. A game room. Bedrooms. Two people making out with the door wide open.

"I bet that could be a really quick fuck, too?" Her hand curls into a fist as she brings him closer to where their noses are centimeters away.

"Not necessarily," Peter breathes. "I can go slow when I want to."

"Well why don't we try that out?" Her chin tilts, her lips reaching the slightest, teasing.

He knows how drunk she is; he knows that she is close to completely wasted, if not already. And he knows that he is high off his ass. "Do you usually fuck guys you've just started talking to?" His chest is heaving. A scene like this has only happens in his _dreams_ , and now here they are...

"Well, if I find them really attractive I do."

"And just how attractive do you find _me_?" His gray hair shines almost white in the low lighting.

"On a scale of one to ten, I have to say five. ...No I'm kidding! You're a nine. And I'm the one _you_ need." Her lips reach out for his, dies playfully at the air.

"Well, aren't _you_ a smooth talker?" Dimples show as his lips curl into a sloppy smile.

Both are drunk, intoxicated, and aroused.

"I've been known to have a silver tongue myself," he chimes, smoking coming out from his mouth.

She gives him a rough jerk forward, and he almost _clashes_ into her. Instead, her mouth ghosts teasingly against his. "Wanna prove that?" Her lips are glossed, seducing, inviting.

"I dunno, _do I_?" His throat is drying and his pants are growing uncomfortably tight.

"You tell me." Her nose bounces off of his, chin tilting upward arrogantly.

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't. I don't really know."

She jerks him forward again and this time he does crash onto her mouth. When they pull away mere seconds later, she wipes the excess spread passed the edges of her glossed mouth with a finger. When he leans in again, eager, his puckered lips meet her open palm; she's speaking something about doubting his _skills_.

"Well, if you don't, I have places I could be."

She bites her lip. "So I'm not important?" She's pouting, scooting a bit closer, fingers tangling in his hair, chests touching.

"You're the one being indecisive."

She leans up on tiptoes, leaning in to kiss him, slowly and this time, biting at his bottom lip. She smells like alcohol and he pulls back.

"Yeah. If you want me, come and get me."

"Okay." He smirks. And then he can taste the watermelon lip-gloss smooshing against his lips, tracing to his tongue. "Hmmm...now we're talking... "

"Alright...now can we?" She looks down suggestively and flashes a suggestive smirks. Her chin motions down the hall behind her.

His grip on her sides tighten. "I'm hardly stopping you."

"Good."

He murmurs an "uh huh."

Mckenzie chuckles, grabbing his hand as she leads him into another room. As soon as she closes the door, he realizes how dark it is inside and brushes along the walls for a light switch. He doesn't get far as he is then pushed up against the wall, Mckenzie beginning an urgent French kiss, and as Peter steadies himself with arms out, he realizes the little space that they have to move, and he wonders if he should suggest finding an _actual_ room to occupy instead of a closet.

But she then has him in another drunken kiss, and he is _pretty sure_ he couldn't have been able to make it down the hall to another room anyway, and he's _pretty sure_ he'll have trouble breaking his thinking from the hand reaching down the front of his pants.

And he does jump at the immediate contact, but she smiles and begins sloppily exploring the inside of his mouth.

His hands glide down her back before resting on her hips. And soon, she has his shirt bunched up around his throat as she works on leaving a hickie, and he's mewling, keening desperately, panting, and she laughs because she registers that he must be a virgin, and persists to tease him about it. He shoots back a cutting comeback.

"You have no idea how badly I want you right now," she purrs, lips moving up to his ear now, biting gently at his earlobe and earning a low moan before returning to his neck.

"Oh, m-me neither, doll." He groans when her teeth bite into his skin. He listens to her whimper as she presses her lower stomach to his groin.

Yep, he could work with this.

Peter's head falls to the wall to collect himself.

The hand that isn't down the front of his pants slide to his shoulder, giving her better leverage to push herself against him. Her occupied hand wraps around him and starts to slowly move inside the confines of his jeans.

Peter's breath hitches. His moans rise in volume. He hadn't expected her to be _this_ forward, but isn't complaining; he likes it. Having far less experience and feeling _quite_ overwhelmed, he couldn't concentrate on much other then her rough stroking and her teeth on his jugular. Eventually, the mutant's fingers slowly creep under her shirt and up her back. Then the kiss breaks, her lips now moving over his jaw, kissing and licking lightly as one of his hands slide to tangle in hair, her tongue trailing down his chest, over his stomach, around his naval, bites, pulls lightly at the skin, and he shivers, quakes, begs.

The sound of metal and leather unbuckling is drowns out by the music. Both of Peter's hands find their way to her hair as his pulse races.

Mckenzie's lips are glossed and smooth and _pleasurable_.

His mouth drops opens, in-taking a partially shocked, partially exhilarated gasp. His head falls against the back wall with a low bang, the moan he releases is unintentionally ugly and _loud_.

His Adam's apple bobs and he forces his eyes open and to look down at her when she performs a movement that makes him grasp desperately and pitifully at the walls, his breaths coming out unsteady and labored.

Almost ten minutes later, the closet door swings open to Clarice's boyfriend holding a half empty bottle of vodka, wide eyed and at first shocked, which grows into a mischievous smirk as he considers bringing an audience, and someone is yelling down the hall, approaching closer and closer—

He smirks, giving a whooping chuckle.

Peter hurriedly yanks up his jeans from around his ankles.

Clarice is walking by and looks over her boyfriend's shoulder, catching Peter stuffing his boxers in his jeans and doing his belt, and Mckenzie standing up from the floor.

Clarice screams.

 _ **. . .** _**_  
. . ._**

Wanda wonders into the kitchen at the house party. She had gotten separated from her date that had been one of the girls in Michelle's friend group, and she couldn't find the girl anywhere.

Wanda heard that Troy is going to be here at the party, and she hopes that she could run into him. She had already looked in two spare rooms and through the sweating bodies in the living room. That's when she wonders into the kitchen, though it had been in search for a nonalcoholic drink.

There, Wanda _did_ find Troy. He is leaning against the counter, an opens bottle of Coors beer in one hand, the other hooked around the waist of a blonde. The mutant watches as his palm lowers to squeeze the blonde's ass, earning a giggling squeal before motioning to leave elsewhere with his chin. Wanda watches the blonde return his lust-eyes and nods.

Wanda's stomach clenches. Her heart sinks and her eyes begin to sting. As she backs out of the dimly lit kitchen, she counts backwards from one thousand, hoping that she will remain calm—though her inside feel to have been yanks out.

The rims of her pupils begin glowing the familiar dark pink-red hue in the dim light, matching her dangling earring.


	23. 20: coming to light (Episode 9)

Rainy sneezes.

"I feel like someone has said something bad about me."

Peter stops writing and stares, deadpanning. "Can you _not_ be over the top? It's really starting to be a total bunk."

She huffs and continues writing in cursive inside her notebook, the pencil strokes undisturbed. "Says the one who got an entire half of the popular population to come after them. Saying this doesn't favor you, Maximoff."

The Spirit Week party had recently happened;  
Rainy didn't attend but Peter had, and she returned hearing  
how he froze, screamed, and now the entirety of Clarice's popular gang has ill or bitter feelings toward him  
Something about being in the closet and neon pink finger-less hand gloves

He wants to slam his head on the table between them. "Why are you saying it like it's _my_ fault?" He sighs.

Rainy's cheek rests on her fist, a position he notices she has to carefully coordinate. "According to all accounts, all fingers point towards you. So, of course I'm going to assume that it is another one of your haywire delinquent schemes gone wrong. ...Is that incorrect?"

"Only... _it isn't!_ " he groans, voice muffled by the thick table wood. "And uh, _yeah_ , it all is incorrect. Nothing that happened went particularly _wrong_."

The two are back at Rainy's kitchen table. It's been almost two full weeks since the party—it could be a week and three days—and as Peter studies the girl across from him, he isn't entirely sure _why_ he had come in the first place. He had convinced himself that it had been because of the homework—they had developed a routine after all, sort of biweekly study appointments. So far, she's helped him ace the coming Science exam and Math test since their past English assignment had been some of the best grades Peter has earned, but Math isn't her _strongest_ suit, he's witnessed.

No, Peter _knows_ that math isn't her best. He's seen her write and then erase, write and then erase problem after problem, sometimes the same one changed twice or three times before finally getting it right. Sometimes, he watches her when he thinks she doesn't notice. He takes pride in it, almost, that he does significantly better, that she refuses to acknowledge that she needs help.

And midterms are coming up.

Sometimes he wonders why he puts up with her tongue lashes and indifferent attitude. But then on days like this, he'd finds himself wondering over here again.

He wonders why he decided to tell her what had happened at the party—not like he _needs_ to tell her much, given how walls talk, but it merely " _slipped out._ " But he is partially glad that she didn't get riled up, unlike his sister had, and that he had bene very, _very_ vague; in fact, he has barely seen his twin since the week before the party...

Sometimes, Peter finds himself watching as if studying her—Rainy—and her _oddness_ , wondering how she had lasted as long like this, numb and deadened; watches the bends of her elbow, the sleekness of her hands, the swells of her breasts _—the swells of her breasts_ —and the expanse of her neck, her full lips, her dark hair that is in need of a trim and beginning to fall in her eyes. Rainy has nice handwriting too.

And she isn't writing anymore, he snaps back to reality. Her hands are still and her lips are moving as she reads something aloud.

Oh, she's speaking again.

"You aren't a very good listener, are you? You don't have a problem with perception, do you? You'd want to work on that before graduation."

"Why are you talking about graduation? We have two more years until that shit-show." He grumbles, scribbling something inside the margins of his textbook. His brows are drawn together again and she takes notice.

"You're getting upset... Is it because you think you won't walk? Or is it because you're afraid?"

"No!" he snaps. "I'm not afraid of anything!"

"Then do you think it'll be difficult for someone of your school status position?"

"Status position?" He raises a finger. "Watch the bitchy-ness, you betty."

"You're right. Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself."

He scoffs. Crosses his arms.

"How would you feel if I won't be as honest next time? Would it be better if I sugarcoat it?"

"That's not what I mean!"

 _black pause scene_

Rainy is barefoot. When she steps on a splinter, she doesn't feel it.

The sun should be setting soon.

"You got really good points on the last exam. Then what's the point of helping you with homework if whenever you come over, all you do is daydream and you never even work on it?"

He shrugs.

They are out on the off ground back patio eating popsicles. The ground is uneven; though they are on the first floor, the land slopes to where the back patio hangs above the ground, as well as Rainy's bedroom above.

Peter swings his legs as he talks. He is the only one wearing shoes, in case he has to sprint to leave.

"Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time. But then I realized—I really don't care."

Rainy's eyes are cat-like and bright as they dart towards him. "I can tell by your hair you don't seem to care about much."

"What about my hair? What's wrong with my hair?" She has hit a nerve; his hands fly to his head.

"It's made up of tinsel and...silver linings."

He sneers. "Yeah? Well your hair is..."

He blanks.

 _'Uh oh.'_

She blinks, cheek resting on her fist. She's going to have a print of her knuckles there later. She blinks, bright stare unwavering.

It's been over a week since Spirit Day

 _'Think, Pietro. Think!'_

"Pretty..." he blurts, and the room's silence draws on.

He curses under his breath, mentally kicking himself.

Rainy blinks. Turns toward the backyard again.

"Thanks, but I'm still not making you a cheat sheet."

" _Aw_ —-come _on_! Please? Pretty please? ... _Pretty please_ with a cherry on top?"

"No. Lay or die in the bed you made and figure this out on your own. Own up to your words that you don't need my help then." She is daring him, he just knows it.

"You can be really cruel sometimes, you know that? Wait! So let's say—theoretically speaking of course—I _do_ study and get a good grade on this exam, then will I, _maybe_ , get a little something in return?" He is grinning like a jackal. She thinks about the rows of teeth he has and thinks they appear too many.

Her lips make a smacking sound letting go of the Popsicle. "No." Her tone is curt and abrasive. "You've already had. You can't teach a dog if you give it treats for doing nothing."

"A dog?" Then he thinks, becomes offended, frowns. "What do you mean by treats?"

"I mean by the way you and Mckenzie were at the party. Is she not with you now?" Rainy is looking at him now, eyes sharp and slicing. She should have been glowering, yelling in his ear, he thinks.

Peter doesn't have a quick comeback for once. His head lolls to the side, annoyed, Popsicle dripping to the wooden patio floor. He groans.

"Don't be too surprised that I know. I mean, about everyone at school does. You were with Mckenzie, after all. The poor girl is still in tears, I hear—not by you, though, I mean. No offense."

For as far as he knows, Peter hasn't seen much of Mckenzie aside from a distance, and he isn't sure how to go about this. The memory is all a haze of booze and smoking and bass pounding in his ear, a hand on his arm, the friction of skin, a sudden rush down his spine...

"You really need to work on your offenses then. Maybe that'll be what we work on tomorrow."

"I don't think we have ti—-"

" _Yes,_ tomorrow. Because you need to learn some manners." He jabs a finger at her again.

"Not with your grades like this. And until you learn to get them up, maybe by then everyone would have forgotten about your lack of stamina." She sees him cringe. It doesn't deter her. "Then maybe you'll make enough time to consider other things on your schedule."

"Uh—-"

"And by _everyone knows_ at school, I do mean everyone. At least, all those who are popular and well-known—meaning Clarice, her boyfriend, also Mckenzie's boyfriend, also their few groupies, some on the sports teams—-"

"Wait—-"

"Not me though. I heard from Michelle—an associate of mine you, could say. She invited this other girl whom I'm guessing knows you—like your sister or cousin or whatever—to the party, but that's not the point."

"Um—-"

"The point is that you shouldn't compare me to your little boy toys. Now, I don't care who you go around and screw, but don't mix up kindness with helpfulness. Especially mine."

Peter rolls his eyes. "Since when is the last time _you_ were _kind_?"

Rainy pauses. She looks off to the side. Her mouth parts. She thinks back, a while back, a week back.

She isn't sure.

"Figures," he mumbles.

 ** _. . .  
. . ._**

 _red pause scene_

"Could you say that that's the proper usage of the word ironic? I forget the name… _Spontaneity_ I believe it is, or something like that. But Danse Macabre sounds about right. I've never heard a less macabre danse."

"That doesn't sound too flattering, Rain."

"It's not. Maybe you're starting to pick up on things. Like, similar things in thinking."

"Yeah...probably _not_."

The two returned to the dining room table and the sun had begun to sink in the sky. The subject they're completing is science now and a study guide is passed back and forth. After complaining that she is going far too slow, Peter takes on the responsibility of completing the worksheet alone, and then takes control in flipping through the textbook himself when Rainy isn't going fast enough for that either. By now, the girl has gone through three Popsicles and is watching the other complete the homework without help for once.

They've been at her house for two hours now.

"Don't try and make some kind of mushy bonding thing now. I know about girls like you."

She pauses, slurping.

"And what type of girls is that?"

Her Popsicle is red this time. It stains her lips. Peter licks his own, focuses back on her eyes, back to the textbook, and tries to control his speed at flipping the pages. He flexes his left palm.

"Girls who don't know how to be nice. Selfish. Who are a cold, and are quite a letdown. To be frank, straight up bitches."

She slurps, licking the falling juices. "I could say the exact same about you."

His mouth shaped an upturned U. She continues eating, her own expression unfaltered, challenging. He thinks she's baiting him, that she's doing this to get under his skin, considering others less again and speaking too brashly. She's only doing the latter. The teen glares and glares and _glares._ The clock ticks in the living room. Car engines sighs as they zoom down the street. The house's A/C unit turns off. And the corner edge of the paper folds back and forth, back and forth in is hand until finally cuts. He flinches. Blood oozes from the pad of his forefinger.

Then, her stomach growls, breaking the silence and Peter jumps. It's unexpected, seems so foreign and _loud_ —because Rainy can't _feel_ , so _how_ can she...?

He blurts, asking what the sound is. And as nonchalant as always, she shrugs, answers, "my stomach."

"What the fr—please tell me you felt _that_? That was _massively_ loud!"

She actually has to think about it. "Barely. Why?"

His face wipes clean. "That's just sad..."

Her Popsicle is half eaten; she doesn't feel the drop of juice trailing down her chin. He gestures at her face to wipe it but she doesn't comprehend the hint.

"How's it sad? Why are you seeming surprised—-?"

"Because you can't—-do you even _feel,_ like, when you eat food? Do you feel it inside, at least?"

"That doesn't sound too appeasing."

He bactracks. "You don't feel on the outside; do you at least feel food?"

"Why could I feel food?"

"You know what I mean," he speaks sharply. "Do you even _taste_ it? When it goes down... Like, do you even _enjoy_ it?"

Again, she doesn't get it. For her, everything is a combination of ration and reality, of science and common sense and observation—no _feelings_. "I don't know. Not really. I mean, I can't feel anything outside, but everything inside is pretty faint." She then pauses, contemplates, and surprisingly, he remains silent, honestly interested. "To be honest, that's the only way I've been able to stay sane, I think. I know the feeling's faint, like, hardly there, but the fact that I could feel something...I think that's the reason why I haven't gone completely crazy..."

SILENCE

Peter blinks. The wrinkle between his brows deepen. Again, silence is pulled between them; he stares as if _pitying_.

"What?"

"...That's...that's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

Rainy would have rolls her eyes.

"You've heard stomachs growl before. Mine isn't different, and you've heard it before."

He shakes his head. "No I haven't." It's all hitting him now— _now_ , truly, because he isn't thinking about himself, about the money he could fill his pockets with, about things to fit inside his pockets or other selfish needs. For once on a rare occassion, he's not. "You—-you can't do _anything_ , eat anything. Do you even know what pizza tastes like? A double cheeseburger?"

"I do, but I can't remember. I don't have trouble eating, you know."

"But—-!"

"And unless you find some cure for it, don't keep whining about it."

He stops at her words. Hesitates. Unsure of how to take what she's said.

The silence draws on for an entire four minutes, which is a feat for him, until he breaks it. "Is that what you would like?"

"Like what?"

"Like...like _you know_. ...Would you like to _feel_ again?"

It's Rainy's turn to freeze stock still, quizzes, calculates, tries to figure out why he is asking. "Why? ...Why would you care?"

"Because that's a sad tragedy for no one to be able to eat a nice, delicious food and have no clue what they're missing. No, but really, what caused all..." His hand gestures to her in circles. "All _this_?" She asks what _this_ is, so he elaborates: "What cursed you? How'd you loose all feeling?"

Most of the wooden stick is showing from her Popsicle. "Why would you think that is any of your business?"

Peter shrugs. "Because I'm curious. And honestly, how many other people have asked? How many people do you think would even bother to ask?"

There aren't many. She actively keeps this secret from her mother, her family, from Sherry, and anyone at school. She's faked injuries, faked illnesses, hunger, cramps. The only emotions she's been able to convincingly portray are rejection, annoyance, negativity.

How many people do you think would ask?

There aren't many.

None.

The dinning room is goes quiet once more.

"I told you: I went to a carnival and some knockoff shaman took all my feeling and emotion—-"

"What carnival?"

She hesitates, tries to read him for any deceit. The ticket is still in her jacket pocket somewhere in her dirty clothes hamper. She had never gone to the carnival after all—had gotten on the bus, but only bought the ticket. Not gone inside. She doesn't know why.

" _Rainy_." Peter grinds his teeth. "What carnival?"

She pauses; she studies him. There's a deep set crease between his brows and his eyes are dark, concentrating, serious. It's different.

"It's called Balzani's Eccentric Carnival. House of Miracles and Oddities is the part where I went to. They come every three years. When I went to go see them, I was wearing this necklace." She reveals around her neck the same golden locket necklace he once stole.

 ** _. . .  
. . ._**

Rainy's father comes home thirteen minutes later and the house is empty inside, beside for her. The glow of the TV screen illuminates the otherwise dark living room, microwaved television dinner in front of her, and she tells him that her mother is still out.

Her father gives her a pat on the head as he passes. Rainy's look doesn't change—a mixture of cool, collected, condescending, indifference.

 ** _. . .  
. . ._**

When Peter left, Rainy told him to climb out the window along the side of the house, opposite of the driveway, when hearing a car pull up. He had tried to smile, had felt something warm swirling inside him—he is thinking it's digestion—and there is something about the carnival on the edge of his tongue ready to be spoken, but he's already outside and she's slammed the window closed and he's left to listen to the locks click and her drawing the curtains. He stood there listening. A car engine turns off, the door slams, and the front door opens. Inside, Rainy turns on the television. There are mumbles of conversation, he hears.

Peter sighs, and with it, he feels an emotion fleeting, an opportunity wasted. He doesn't know what it is.

He also doesn't know that there is a strawberry blonde walking up the sidewalk and who stops and stares, frozen, hazel eyes and mouth falling open, who had just seen it all—of him climbing out the downstairs window, of the curtains drawn, of Peter's guilty-stricken face as his hands fly up in defense and he's babbling a poorly thought excuse.

Sherry is not convinced.

* * *

 _A day later_

"Hey— _hey_! Meisha!"

Peter waves from down the hallway. The redhead freezes, tentatively closing her locker door as the speedster hurries up to her.

"Guess what?"

Sighing, she replies, "you're gonna tell me anyway. So go ahead."

He smiles widely, continuing bouncing on his toes.

"Did someone steal your lunch money again? Is it another idea for a prank? Or is it _Kenzie_ again?" The name is spoken with almost an eye roll and the thought vaguely passes through his mind that there is _something_ different about his friend today.

"No! Why do you seem so bitter? Anyways—now _guess what_ , Meisha."

She doesn't want to, but asks anyway. "What?"

"Chicken-butt." He smiles like he's really proud of himself.

Meisha pinches the bridge of her nose, praying for patience. "Why?" She groans, closing the zipper of her book bag. "Peter, you do know that _Mckenzie_ and her group better not hear you talk like that. You'd get beat up in minutes."

"But I'm too _cute_ to beat up," and he puts on puppy-dog eyes; he isn't serious and it's a mock, and not convincing. He thinks that he is so funny; he likes to think that he's a comedic genius. "No but really, I think I found out some great information! And what's your problem? You've been different lately."

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "I think I can manage to see past the _'_ _adorable'_ exterior." She folds her arms, pretends to pout. That's when he notices that she's wearing a pink halter-top, and his brows arch upward. "And I don't have a problem, alright?"

"But why're you dressed like _that_?"

"Like what?" She's still and tense. Her light brown eyes squint.

He suspects that she's wearing _makeup_. His nose wrinkles. "Like _that_."

"What? My clothes? Is something wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"No. It's just... _different_ that's all."

"And you're staring at me like that... _Different_ good...? Or bad?" Her eyes widen, hopeful. Her bangs are pulls back for once, and there is a flower clip securing them.

"Yeah sure."

Meisha frowns.

But he knows that she has always been too nice for her own good, more than some others that he knows. He wants to ask why she is dressed like this, like she wants school jocks' attention, like she's stared in a bubblegum commercial, like she wants to be a part of the popular clique; she's never worn bright pink and a corner of his lip pulls back.

"You sure there's _nothing_ going on?—because you're mentioning Mckenzie a lot too, like you like her—-"

" _I_ don't have a problem with her. I mean, really. She's _your...thing_ , if that's the right word." She starts walking, the other mutant in tow. "And there she is—your girl."

Further down the hallway indeed is Mckenzie, Meisha points. The girl is alone, and her head is down, which is odd—Mckenzie was— _is_ popular, has always been, and rarely is she seen without entourage or from Clarice's side. As the two continue watching, the mutants see two girls and a jock wearing a letterman jacket whom they recognize from hanging around the blonde popular queen. Clarice is there too. But unlike the many, many times the clique has roamed these hallways, this time Mckenzie trails noticeably behind; her boyfriend that is usually by her side has his arm around another girl, a shorthaired brunette, and if Mckenzie notices this, she doesn't give any indication. In fact, since being discovered slinking away at the party on Spirit Day, Mckenzie had been behaving _differently_. More reserved, more silent, more alone—an outcast in her own group.

Meisha tisks. "You still like her, don't you?" Peter's lips set in a tight line at her question; she folds her arms, her own lips curling. "She looks awfully lonely. Why don't you go _talk_ to her? No gentleman would leave her like that."

His head whips around to her. " _Gentleman_?" he scoffs. Both know he isn't either.

"But...do you still like her?" Her tone rises. It's slight, but still there.

He jiggles the bag hanging from his shoulder, watches the clique from afar. "...Yeah."

Because he's turned, he doesn't see Meisha's head drop or the tightening of her fists. They continue watch the group stop to chat in the entrance of a classroom.

"Hey, what was that thing you wanted to tell me?"

"Um. Nothing, don't worry about it."

 ** _. . ._ ****_  
**. . .**_**

Last Tuesday, Peter Maximoff had been caught climbing out the window of Rainy's home. Sherry witnessed, eyes as wide as saucers and she hadn't been about to scream then, but there was an accusation flying when he had ran up to press his palm to her mouth, shutting her silent. He begged her to keep quiet, to not tell anyone.

After wrestling his hand away, all she wanted is answers, and threatened if she didn't get them.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?!"

"I was coming over because I was coming back to return the—the—protractor I borrowed. You know. Because we're _friends._ " His reply was accompanied with a wrung, dry smile.

" _Protractor_ ," she sneered.

"Did you not hear me?"

She scoffed.

Peter begs Sherry not to tell anyone, that if anyone did find out, they would start talking, teasing, and spreading false accusations. He would be roasted alive and made an even more outcast, and Rainy would be dragged down with him. And Sherry had laughed, telling him that he shouldn't be worried about people talking about _this_ —he hadn't understood it at the time—that people are still talking about him, yes, and probably would for a while, but _this_ _window situation_ is probably the _least_ of his worries.

The first is of Rainy

Now, back in school two days later, he's forced inside another closet, this time it's the janitor's closet on the second floor. He'd been looking for Rainy but to no avail, and now his back is getting cold due to being pressed against the concrete wall and Sherry has his collar bunched in her fists, and she's huffing, angry—or frustrated, or _something_. He's seen that expression before.

"What are you _doing_!? You're going to be killed!"

Moments ago, he'd been fraternizing with a boy who is about a head taller. The two beside him were cracking their knuckles, preparing to fight. Luckily, Sherry stole Peter away and were able to hide in time to hold their breaths, hearing the three boys in jerseys run by the closed janitor door outside.

Sherry and Peter exhale.

"That's stupid." She opens the door when certain the coast is clear. "What were you trying to do? _You_ never talk to them—they'll beat you to a pulp."

There's a small piece of torn paper in his pocket, he remembers. It's an address torn from a flyer. "I am trying to take care of some business."

" _Business_?"

"Yes _business_. It's done by talking to people, you know?"

She snaps, knowing what _business_ is. She asks what he had been doing—she wants to help because most would listen to _her_ more. They're walking toward the stairs now. They pass a trophy set for sports behind glass; class is still going on.

"And obviously, you _have_ to be close to Rainy or else she wouldn't have let you come over." Then, a realization strikes. "Wait, is she paying you for something? Are you getting something out of her? Because she doesn't get along with _anyone_ enough to let them come over to _her house_. Whatever it is? I can double it."

"What is it with you people and money," he rolls his eyes.

"I, uh, didn't really mean money..." Her eyes dart to the side.

Peter sneers almost. "You sound a little hurt that Rainy lets me come over. Does she not let _you_?"

"Oh, course she does! I'm her best friend!"

He hums.

"Best friend huh? Then can you tell me about this best friend of yours because all that she tells me are answers to the next test. I'd, uh, like to get to know her better, you know." Those last words are harder to say than anticipated. He cringes on the inside.

Sherry squints. "She _gives_ you answers?" Her hair appears a brighter red today for some reason, or he's just overanalyzing again. "That doesn't sound like her."

"Then can you tell me what _does_? What's she like? She seems a little...troubled?"

That makes the girl's brow rise. Sherry stops walking and folds her hands behind her back. "And what makes you think I should tell you anything? How do I know that you don't have anything against her, some hidden malicious agenda?"

His hands are in his pockets. "Because one: she actually _let_ me inside. And two," he curls his finger around the sleeve of his shirt, pulling. He shows the healed scar on the side of his arm Rainy caused by her box cutter. "She gave me this. So I think we're past the awkward introduction parts."

This time Sherry's expression relaxes slightly. "She did that?" the girl asks, incredulously.

"Yeah. She isn't the most sensitive person. Or shy. You should know that—you _know_ that, right? Why do you seem so surprised?"

Sherry hesitates. "Because the last time I know, she's sick. She has some type of disease—no one with a disease goes around—-"

He snorts. _Disease!_

She questions what he finds so funny.

"See, that disease thing is what I wanted to ask those _lovely men_ before you showed up but you'll do. How long has she been _"sick?"_ I'm doing a type of—project—research—whatever, about it. When did she first find out?"

Again, Sherry hesitates on her words, thinking first.

"Not too long ago—-"

"When, exactly. Will you tell me?"

Pause.

"...I guess so. She got it around the start of seventh grade. But...I got to ask: why do you talk so fast?"

His answer is ready a beat later. "Speech impediment."

 ** _. . ._ ****_  
**. . .**_**

It's the day after Ronny's return from the doctor's. Gossip has started to circulate amongst the popular crowd and those further down the hierarchy could feel the tension brewing.

The bell for lunch rang not too long ago and the cafeteria is thriving. Food is dropping on the floor and muffins wrapped in plastic wrap are shoved into backpacks. Mckenzie sits two seats away from her ex-boyfriend, and Wanda is outside under the bleachers. Troy is still with the blonde from the party, her snuggled under this arm, and Rainy eats quietly beside Michelle and her threesome; Ronny absentmindedly chews on a sandwich. Meisha pushes broccoli florets around on her lunch tray. It's only she and her friend at the small corner they occupied and she had drawn her sweater hood over her head, too shy to want to be taken notice of. It's been been five minutes that they've been at the table until her third friend arrives, and she's been nervous, her anxiety on hyper drive.

She turns to him, preferring his bologna sandwich to the questionable school meat on the tray.

"Why are you so quiet?"

He watches her tentatively study a broccoli before eating it. He finishes chewing. "No reason." Ronny takes another bite.

Meisha is staring at him now. "That's not true."

He isn't looking at her.

"Ronny, what's wrong? You're wearing your stressed face again."

"I'm not stressed," he lies. But there are deep wrinkles between his brows and his eyes focus, and he tenses. It isn't rocket science to tell that indeed he is.

She frowns, he sees when stealing a glance.

Ronny shakes his head, shrugs. "Nothing's wrong. I'm not stressed." His mouth is full with his sandwich.

"And cats don't meow. Don't treat me like some bimbette."

He doesn't respond. It's some time until she speaks again.

"Ronny~ What's _wrong_?" She's nudging his shoulder now.

He still wouldn't tell.

Across the lunchroom, Michelle's friend makes a joke and Rainy is a beat too late to laugh. Clarice, crowded around people who "love" her, as usual, laughs heartedly. Tables of classic geeks exchange game cards, and one drops his cookie on the floor.

Meisha asks why he wouldn't tell. "...Does it have something to do with the doctor?" When he doesn't answer, taking another bite to keep his mouth busy, she continues. "Peter told me. So yeah, I know." She pauses. He chews, swallows; still no answer. "What happened?" She places a hand on his forearm, but draws it away quickly. He's _freezing_ , as cold as the cafeteria air.

He scratches at his arm, further up and near the shoulder. His skin is dry. The rash had gone away at first but has now spread across both his shoulders and over his knuckles. It started off as small patches before, cracks in his skin that formed in scale-like patterns. Now its grown up his back, over his kneecaps, creeping up the right side of his neck.

"Nothing happened," he tells. He lies. Ronny takes another bite of his sandwich, suddenly hating the taste.

 ** _. . ._ ****_  
**. . .**_**

Rainy isn't at school either, Peter later finds out. She was emitted to a hospital a day ago and had lost a lot of blood.

 _"Rainy can't loose any blood. She starts to bleed and it won't stop,"  
_ Sherry tells

Peter finds out because Sherry told him—eventually; there was much pressing.

Of course, She did not trust him, not fully or immediately. And so she didn't suspect, didn't _think_ that he'd be the one to go _back_ to Rainy's house—on his _own_ and of his own accord. She would likely suspect that he's up to something, and she wouldn't let him go and do something to her friend. She only didn't know that he's already visited multiple times. Too many times, the two walk after school and on weekends, the route already familiar and almost memorized.

 _"It happened at home. She told me everything:_

 _Some "guest" had been over at their house,_

 _And this isn't like the other times when they would grab her arm and try to sweet talk her to come and then go away when she insults them._

 _He had gotten angry._

 _He had been there for her mother; I don't think her father was there. I don't know._

 _He'd gotten mad when she called him a hairy, maggot-eating, three horned white lizard looking *******._

 _And he had thrown one of the ceramic glass plate at the back of her head._

 _She says that she didn't feel it—"_

 _"Of course she wouldn't"_

 _"—But when her mom came in, hearing the breaking glass, she'd screamed and threw the guy out the house. Rainy was taken to the hospital after that."_

Peter looks again at the little piece of paper torn from a flyer. It's an address. He's going to Rainy's, but first, he has to take care of business. Going at his own superhuman speed, he eventually arrives at the location no more than seven seconds later.

It would be late afternoon soon, when the sun would begin to sink and the show will start. School is out and everyone has gone home.

He stands at the entrance of a borrowed land lot, Balzani's Carnival in big, bold, nauseating lettering on the entrance tapestry. He cracks his knuckles and walks in.

 ** _. . ._ ****_  
**. . .**_**

Wanda remains in her bedroom the remainder of the day.

She's gotten into the habit of disappearing there as soon as she arrives home. Currently, she's sitting on top of her comforters. Her younger sister pounding on the door is drowned up by the music playing from her cassette music player blaring through her headset. She's writing in a journal, a diary.

She's upset, feels frustrated, wronged; she feels angry, used, and vengeful. She is partially proud of herself for not losing control back at the party but, of course, there's a part of her that wishes she had. And when this indecision happens, when she's full of these red hot emotions that makes her fingertips glow and a tingle set behind her eyes, she would try and think of different things, happy things. Sometimes she goes to the kitchen. Most times she colors or read. Music helps.

In truth, Wanda is very, very bitter about Troy. She just couldn't get her mind around _why_ his attitude had changed.

 _Had he just used her? Had he been drunk? Did he even_ like _her?_ Worst yet, was _she played only for his spare time?_

Her younger sister pounds on her bedroom door. She hollers, saying that it's six and Peter still hasn't returned home. Marya is working late tonight, and the twins are in charge of dinner.

Wanda groans, rising from her bed. Peter was supposed to be back with soda.

 _ **. . .** _**_  
**. . .**_**

As many times as she's run into the mutant, whether in a crowded areas or alone, she should be used to his antics, his hyper-energy and slight loss of courtesy and manners. But really, she just couldn't wrap her brain around it—ration-wise—and when she opens her window, hearing knocks coming from outside, and sees him knocking on the one of her parents' bathroom, Rainy wonders how he had gotten to a window that would have been on a second floor on leveled ground.

She slides her bedroom window up enough to slide a hand out. "Shouldn't you be climbing up someone else?"

"Watch your mouth. Shouldn't you be..." He blanks.

Rainy's arms remains crossed, watching him from her own bedroom window as he dangles below.

"...Look, I got nothing, alright!" He holds on to the window ledge, worn sneakers pushing against the side of the house for support. "Now let me in! I don't have super strength you know!"

She remains aloof, stolid. "Why should I?"

He's visibly struggling. "I swear to _god_ , Rainy! Let me in the damn window! I have something to tell you."

"Why can't you tell me now?"

"Rainy!"

Ten seconds later, the boy is standing from his hands and knees after clambering into her room. He stands quickly—not _too_ quickly to be inhuman—and brushes himself off, exhales, puffs out his chest. He's trying to look cool. It doesn't work.

She takes a step. He notices that she's partially dressed in nightclothes. Her arms are crossed and that stone face of hers hasn't changed. "What is it?" She cut to the point. "Or I'll start screaming burglar. And I haven't screamed in a long time so I don't know how horrible my voice would be."

"Hey, hey! No need for that." He raises his hands in defense. Thinks. "You say _again_? Like you've done this before? Is that your thing? Is that what you do? Because I think I should be concerned, and I'd imagine it to be unpleasant."

"Unpleasant?"

"Very unpleasant." He takes a look around her room. It's unfamiliarly territory. It's peculiar, and foreign.

The room is uncharacteristically tidy. Almost everything seems to have a place, everything put away nicely—and then he sees her school things scattered, and an abandoned shoe, a tie-dyed shirt on the floor near her nightstand. His nose wrinkles.

She still wears that placid, calmed look about her features. "What is it?"

"What is what?" He speaks rapidly, attention snapping back to her. He realizes that he's only seen the dinning and living area of the house, and this is a bold move for him, that she could kick him out any time, or get him caught, arrested.

The rush of it is exhilarating.

"What it _is_ , is that you need to come and tell me? I hope it's important for you to come all the way over here." She glances at the clock on her night-table. "I'm supposed to go to bed in the next hour and a half."

"Oh that..." Then a wide, toothy smile creeps across his face, spreading his lips to where he resembles the Jaws shark. "Grab your coat. I have something special arranged for you, rain cloud. ...And, you might want to put on some shoes...and clothes because—because it's a bit chilly tonight."

Again, Rainy looks at him from his scuffed shoes to the goggles over his white hat. "You still haven't told me why. Why should I listen to you?"

"Because I...it's this...because you said..."

Rainy doesn't move with her arms folded and gaze unwavering, waiting. He bites his lip.

Peter doesn't like to be wrong. Even more so, he doesn't like being _caught_ doing these benevolent kinds of things or _admitting_ to them. He calls them charity work to keep his ego when he's done something nice and unselfish. But if you were to ask him about it, he'd lie.

"Will you just—-! Look, I have—-I arranged a little meeting for you to get your _"condition"_ looked at, because I remembered you talking about that carnival and that cheapskate who outsmarted you."

"I knew I shouldn't have told you," she voices in a slightly lower volume. Her hair is messy, un-brushed. "And I wasn't outsmarted. I was cheated."

"Sure." He rolls his eyes. "Anyways, get dressed because you're sneaking out." He fingers the two cut pieces of red paper in his pocket. "I have two tickets."


	24. 21: balzani's eccentric carnival (Ep 9)

_**A/N: This is the climax of the fic, if you will, which explains its length. If I should split this chapter, tell me and I'll do it.**_

* * *

 _"I'm going to make you better," the thought passes. He thinks he's doing the right thing. He hopes he is doing the right thing._

"The last showing?" She looks at the two tickets, noting the time. They are on the bus, catching the second to last ride that night. "I don't see how it can be much help if there's no way back home after. We'll be trapped."

He groans. The bus drives over a speed bump.

"You didn't think about that, did you?"

He hadn't. The bus takes a sharp turn to the right and Rainy slides across the seat, closer. When the vehicle straightens, he pushes her back over and she straightens in the seat. Once again, he wonders why they are sharing one. Rainy crosses her arms and continues staring at the flimsy red ticket in her hands.

For the rest of the ride, there's little talking. Peter constantly fidgets. Rainy doesn't look away from out the window. When they finally step off the bus, carnival lights are already strung up and glowing, rides are in motion, creaking and metal clanking, and children are screaming for candy to their parents. The animal attractions have been brought out and there are performers doing small tricks for pocket cash.

There are no lines at the entrance. The bus rumbles back down the road, and neither have spoken still.

Peter watches her approach the ticket teller and given wristbands of admission. He has his on first; he sees Rainy struggling and takes her wrist in his hand, complying to assist. She still hasn't spoken. She doesn't thank him either.

"What're you thinking about?" he asks, tying her wristband on for her.

When her mouth opens, at first no words come out. "What did he say when you got there? You said that this is a personal appointment."

Yeah, well...

"They said that _that's_ after the show," waves a finger as they enter the carnival grounds.

"So I'm expects to sit through another one of their dreadful shows? How are you to know that they were truthful? Who did you talk to?"

He tries to reason, to insists that it wouldn't be so bad, that carnivals are supposed to be _fun_ , right? But she isn't buying it.

"How disappointing. Still trying to con me out of my money. This time, my time."

"You didn't say this about a con man!" Instead, Peter has tries looking on the brighter side—this would be more of a challenge for him, the sneaking and the _adrenaline_ —but hearing this, maybe he's getting himself into an even bigger mess. Maybe he should have stayed home.

Rainy responds with a simple, "oh" from over her shoulder. She's holding her sweater balled-up in her arms, leaving her shoulders exposed in her blowy, sleeveless blouse.

"You aren't cold, are you?"

She looks down again. "No," her tone is soft.

He watches her shoulders. There's something sticking out along her right one shoulder blade, something beneath her shirt, something colorful. He isn't going to ask about it. At least not yet.

His tongue darts out. Wipes his mouth with his hand, once.

Mulch crunches under their feet. They approach the entrance to the main tent and Rainy draws back the flap, peering inside. It's dark, the metal bleacher seats rapidly filling as the last of the audience crowds inside, packing side by side. They reminding Rainy of sardines. Peter hasn't gone inside, and instead, is exchanging money for a large bag of buttered popcorn.

"What do you think you're doing?" she calls.

He turns with a cheek already full. "I'm hungry, calm down."

She glances over his shoulder to see a small boy, maybe around the age of seven, and his parents walking towards a kiddie ride. The mother is holding a small stick of cotton candy stick and the father looks nervous.

"So I got these two tickets," the mutant speaks. "We better head inside because I think the show is going to start soon and I want my money's worth."

"What?"

Peter blinks. "Did I say something wrong _now_?"

If Rainy could be surprised, she would have. "You really think I've come here to spend my money again on cheap prizes and waters down soda? They're show is a joke here. The tickets are overpriced and you can see the illusions a mile away. The man in charge here can and will swindle you out of your money for a future fortune after giving you a false reading of when you'll die." Her voice is calm, collects, and slicing. He's frowning deeply now but she doesn't care. "And the cotton candy machines are never cleaned."

Peter pauses with a fistful of popcorn halfway to his mouth. Now, it lowers tentatively, disappointed. "Well now you just ruined the whole thing. You need to stop doing that."

"Before, I wasn't able to come here—myself. I don't, can't fathom why. But I am now, and I'm not going to lose sight of my goal now, this place that ruins my life." Her hair is tied in a high ponytail and she is wearing a denim jacket, jeans, an almost scowl on her face. "You're free to leave anytime, whenever you want, Maximoff. This doesn't concern you; you can go and watch that liar of a man if you want."

They hear pony horses, the call of a falcon somewhere.

There isn't a sound that passes between them for a good minute. Rainy sees the gears turning in his head, his look transforms from disappointed to astonished to comprehension, before returning to a deep frown. She sees him finally chuck his fistful of popcorn back into the bag.

Inside the main tent, the lights dim and a tall, round man in a top hat and suit emerges to the center ring, carrying a whip. He throws his hands up and introduces himself as the owner of this carnival, Ringmaster Balzani. His voice booms, amplified by speakers.

Rainy looks off to the side, turns to leave, and Peter debates.

How long has he known Rainy?—this girl who couldn't keep her mouth shut and who doesn't filter her words. Who has helps him bring up his grades, and doesn't care whether you like her or not. She's truthful, ballsy, belligerent, and unfamiliar, a breath of fresh air—she's cursed and is surrounded by questionable, stereotypically questioning people. She is cursed, and every time Peter crosses her path, wonders why he puts up with her, why he doesn't just run away and leave her behind and to her own fate. Their deal is done. He doesn't have to keep seeing her to study. He doesn't have to listen to her un-flustering banter. He doesn't need to listen to her story. He doesn't need to _care_.

He wants to call it charity work, but—

This girl is a basket case. It's probably his own selfishness that led him to stay—he doesn't deny that she has _connections_ , and that she could help him (cheat) ace every exam. But that isn't it. Not entirely.

He, himself, is rude, selfish, inconsiderate, impatient, and oblivious. She doesn't think, couldn't feel, is an open book and a puzzle; she has no regards for other's personal feelings, is conniving, condescending, insensitive, and morally questionable.

Time feels to have slowed down as Peter watches her ponytail sway as she turns on her heels.

Like her, sometimes he doesn't know why he is here either. He wants to say that it is a kind of charity work.

"Let's go." He grabs her wrist before she can walk off—Rainy is fast but he's faster. "This _does_ involve me now? Where is this ass-wipe? What pile of shit is he hiding under?"

Glancing at his fist around her wrist, she asks what he is doing this time.

"Going to find this jerk. You're on an agenda, right? Let's go."

She needs a moment to gather this, to try and understand his logic for this. "Don't even think I'm thanking the likes of you."

"Don't worry, I'm not. Instead, _you_ should be the one who's thankful."

"...I don't understand that."

 ** _. . .  
. . ._**

Meisha sits at her cream-white dresser glaring at er ugly, repulsive reflection in the mirror. This time she isn't crying, isn't bawling or in pain. She hasn't touched the pair of scissors used to tear a two-inch wide gap of hair from her scalp. That she used to self harm. She hasn't seen them in a long while, having placed them back in the kitchen drawer and acted like nothing ever happened. The small bald spot of hair has a fuzz-patch now. from her scalp. She continues to hide it with high ponytails and braided buns.

 _When she has been crying_  
Snip  
It's the same as self-harm

 _red pause scene_

Meisha glares at herself in the mirror. Takes a wet wipe to her face and, smearing at first, wipes the makeup off that she's worn that day. Mascara borrowed from her mother's bag glossed over peach colored lipstick. Sherry applied it earlier that day, but the strawberry blonde hadn't realized that she couldn't put on _the same_ _type_ of makeup that she uses on another, that different techniques flatter different features. Powder blush and too-light foundation smear the moist cloth.

Meisha throws the used wipe away in the wastebin beside her dresser and takes out another, wiping away the eyeliner and mascara.

She groans. She still has some time to warm up to this. She considers taking tips from her mother.

When she's working on ridding the lipstick, her mother knocks and enters her bedroom without waiting for a reply.

She's shocked, feels intruded, feels suddenly _guilty_. "Mom?"

The woman's eyes are torn, the sees. They're sad, remorseful, guilty, concerned—then she squares her shoulders, raises her chin. "Meisha, how've you been? ...Have you been feeling alright?"

She hesitates, suddenly suspicious. "Yes..."

Lie

"Really? Nothing's been going on that you might want to talk about? Like...trouble at school? Boys...? Feelings...?"

Then suddenly the girl's heart is in her throat and her blood is rushing. Meisha freezes. This time, she doesn't reply.

Her mother continues. "Because I have something of yours." She approaches closer and now Meisha can see what is in her other hand. Her mother outstretches her arm and inside her palm are locks—thick clumps of light ginger hair. Her daughter's eyes go wide.

Meisha's initial reaction is to blurt, "it's not mine!" And it's on the end of her lips, her mouth already forming the lie when she stops herself.

"Oh, it's not?" her mother questions, not fooled at all.

The girl's jaw snaps closed. It's a reaching assumption—she is the only one in the house with red hair and it's irrefutable.

But her mother's eyes remain calm and soft and so, so troubled. "Meisha, we need to talk," she calmly orders.

 ** _. . .  
. . ._**

Safety is number one

"I don't understand. You actually fell for it and believed that Balzani was going to help?"

They pass a warning sign, one that instructs safety and precaution.

"It was an honest mistake."

As the show under the tent begins, Peter grabs Rainy's wrist and shoulders his way through a small bustling of people. He drops his bag of popcorn somewhere on the ground. When he realizes that he's pulling her along and doesn't know where to go, and turning and asking her to lead, she does so without a word. Leads them past the ride attractions and further into the back of the carnival.

It's practically night out. Insects are singing, foretelling the approaching darkness. Inky black chases away pink and gold clouds; the sky strains to hold the last of daylight at the very edges of the horizon.

"Do you know where you're going? You said that you tend to forget things. Do you remember what the guy looks like?" he asks, warily. "You know, you could have forgotten or got it mixed up. How are you so certain? How are you certain it's this way?"

Her answer is cutthroat and simple: "You don't forget the face of the person who ruined your life and your family."

Oh.

"You really thing he ruined your family too? How do you even know? You think that it's—-"

"Yes, I'm certain." Rainy steps over a protruding rope line that Peter trips over. "Balzani—the ring leader—he's worse than you'd imagine."

"You don't think that maybe these thoughts are all one-sided...?" His brow rises. He wants to be skeptical and he doesn't know how much to believe.

"Balzani is the ultimate conman here who swindled all these performers into contracts with no loopholes," she explains in one breath, ombre brown ponytail swinging. "Why do you think the ticket prices were so high?"

"How do you know this?!" Peter is appalled.

"That's how they trick you. They get your expectations high and they feed you mediocre attractions." She points to a kiddie roller coaster; it's breaks rusted and screaming as it comes to a jolted stop.

He frowns. They round behind a cotton candy stand. "I'm guessing you didn't like the show?"

"I saw every trick coming."

Well then, this is kind of a bummer.

He pulls his hat lower, hiding his prematurely grey hair. "Okay then, where are we going?"

"We're finding the guy who can grant wishes."

She turns onto a path that leads under a makeshift archway labeled _House of Miracles and Oddities_. As they enter, the attractions change to more personalized tents, some with titles, stage names, lurring attractions, all painted on large cloth tapestries and wood. There's one of a bearded woman holding a hand mirror, one of a very obese balded man, and a sign about a contortionist. Then the _miracles_ _oddities_ became more _peculiar_ as the two journey further into the "house": a painted tapestry of a magician without arms, of a two-heads fortune teller, a sign labeled a "living devil," a shrinking woman with wings given the stage name "actual fairy," a picture of a woman eating swords and titled "the bottomless woman." There's another of a shirtless man with spikes protruding from his back like a porcupine. Another with an elongated face. A sign reading "human magnet."

Peter's skin crawls.

"Rainy...?" He's becoming more wary, uncomfortable, making sure to stay to her side.

A trio of teen boys exit from the fortuneteller's tent appearing as if they've seen something ghastly, and Peter can hear the remnants of the woman's voice calling from inside.

"It should be over here," Rainy muses aloud, pointing ahead. "Near the human flamingos if he hasn't moved."

"Human flamingos?!"

"My mistake. _Mutant_ flamingos." She points to a sign that reads "Real dancing plants!" and Peter scrunches his nose. "No, I lied again."

He glares.

Her pace slows when her destination comes into view. It's a red tapestry hanging high of the face of a man painted on it. The stage name "wish-granter" is written in alluring gold.

"Really? _Wish-granter_?" Peter grumbles. "He couldn't pick any better name? Why not _genie_ or _magic man_ or something _cool_?"

She's staring at a tent nearby. The one that allegedly holds a woman with three eyes. "Because, as I told , he likes to consider himself a shaman."

" _Consider_?"

She nods.

It's silent, but luckily not awkward.

The carnival is alive with cranking of old gears, corn popping, animals defecating, and Balzani's voice echoing.

Rainy stares at the tent before them. She stares and stares and stares and stares. Peter wants to ask what she's thinking. To be honest, he's afraid to ask. He's not sure if he would like the answer, if he would be told more information that he probably shouldn't know, that he probably shouldn't get emotional over, that he probably shouldn't worry about because it _doesnt_ involve _him_.

He nudges her side, asks if she is sure she wants to do this. She only frowns.

"Maximoff, I'll say this once more." He asks " _what?"_ but she continues as if he hadn't. "Perhaps it's difficult to tell from my clothes, but my body might not actually be worth the price you'd pay for accomplicing a crime."

"You and I have two different expectations, I see. You also seem pretty confident. Overly confident." He speaks truthfully, and then switches over to sarcasm. "You're _great_ at persuasion though. Absolutely fantastic. The best. You blow my mind."

"Don't be rude. This is a serious situation—"

"And I'm being serious."

"-—And none of this situation calls for you. So you can retreat back before something unfortunate happens."

But he only glares at her and tells that he's going in anyway. Maybe he could get a few punches in too. She tells him only after she gets her condition fixed. He grins and agrees, flexing his shoulders, his knuckles, makes a show of it. It's mainly to convince himself. They cross the final few feet to stand at the threshold of the Wish-granter's tent.

"You ready?" He looks to her.

She sighs. No answer.

"Well nothing's going to happen if we just stand here," she points. Oddly, that takes some of his wariness away.

The tent is well kept, almost specially decorated, like in some kind hierarchy and this one is near the top. Jewels and beads hang from the ceiling and the smell of incense burning carries on the air.

He takes the first step forward.

A voice inside stops him: "Wipe your feet!"

The teen jumps.

Peering inside, both notice the floor mat on the ground for the first time. The mutant grumbles as he wipes his sneakers before stepping inside.

 _Darkness_

 _Strangeness_

 _Dangerous to walk around_

 _Mysterious existence_

 _Eye_

 _Finger_

 _Monster_

 _Mouth_

 _tongue_

 _tooth_

 _Nose_

 _Ear_

 _Immortal_

 _A strangely deadened girl_

 _Capulet_

 _My intuition is right now at 10%_

The inside is dim, almost completely dark. It doesn't help that it is very close to nighttime outside. The inside of the tent is illuminated by large candles placed at each corner, extras on small side tables. Peter's vision adjusts and he focuses a woman with a veil over her eyes curled up alongside a man, both sitting on pillows over a reed mat. The man curls his fingers forward, ordering the teens to come inside.

The teen blinks. He feels Rainy stand at his side, solid and calm. It helps a little.

The woman in the short veil shifts, her hand still on the chest of her apparent lover.

"Well, nice to meet you, miss," the man smiles and the teen is immediately suspicious. Peter notices there are painted markings—tattoos?—near the man's eyes. The mutant also sees that the other wore a sleeveless shirt, and that he appears to like food and little exercise. "I am Halil, the Wish Granter. Anything your heart desires—family problems to resolve; an ex you'd like to forget; meditation to erase the day's troubles—I can grant them all." Peter could have sworn that the man's grin grows wider, sneakier.

The mutant shuffles.

"Nice to meet you, too. My name is Rainy Capulet. This is my classmate," she nods her head in Peter's direction, who stands still with his arms at his sides. "He's heard of things about you and came along to see you."

"Ah, I see..."

Partially taken off guard by how polite and sincere she sounds, Peter looses his composure for a split second. He doesn't know that the woman in the veil catches it. She whispers in a foreign language to the Wish Granter's pierced ear.

"Halil," Peter butts in. "Around two years ago, this girl—-"

"Three years," Rainy corrects. "And please refrain from saying _'this girl_.' That's rude."

"Then what would you want me to say then?"

"...An unfortunate casualty."

"This _unfortunate casualty_ that we know," he repeats in a drone. He's nearly rolling his eyes but doesn't want this creepy couple to kidnap him.

"Don't use such a robotic tone. Say it properly." Rainy's head is slightly tilted.

He sighs, still facing the couple. Peter whispers, still clearly snark and no longer paying attention. " _This casualty that we know_ —-" He earns two fingers to his eyes when he suddenly turns back toward her, as Rainy had been ready and prepared with fingers outstretched.

While cursing and holding his eyes in pain and accusing that she has meant to poke his eyes out, she replies that rude comments are an eyesore.

"In any case," she continues, turning her steely gaze to the man sitting on the pillows. "Who's she?" The girl points to the woman in the veil.

The woman leans forward, beginning to stand. Stopping her, the Wish Granter insists she remain sitting. She spits for Rainy to watch her tongue in another language. The man tells Rainy that the woman isn't a part of this conversation.

"So, no one major?" Rainy asks.

The woman bristles.

The Wish Granter laughs. "You got a mouth on you, don't you, young lady?"

Rainy ignores it. "So anyway, I was told that you can help me."

He leans back on his pillow seat. "Well, that's what I'm here for."

"Like I said before: I'm Rainy Capulet. Exactly three years ago I came to this carnival and went to see you after watching the main show with complaints about my home life."

"Sorry ma'am, I don't remem—-"

"I came to you with two other girls: one with red hair, one with bushy black. I was wearing this necklace with this picture inside it. You wanted it instead of money." She takes her golden necklace from around her neck and opens the locket to show the picture inside. Peter couldn't deny that the man's eyes do _glint_ , as if suddenly finding treasure. "I came here for help. Instead, my wish turned and backfired."

Peter begins to worry. His eyes darts to the man who is squinting now, studying, judging Rainy who stands firm with unwavering guild. Tension passes in wavelengths. The Wish Granter tells the woman beside him to leave, that this is business matters that need to be handled alone. And she is reluctant at first, but he orders her once more and she rises to her feet; Peter sees that they are bare. As she walks by, he notices that she's inches taller than he, and the mutant can _swear_ , is more than _certain_ that he sees a third eye under that thin veil, one centered and above her first two, situated on her forehead.

 _Eye_

 _Strangeness_

He swallows, remaining silent.

The Wish Granter stares at Rainy minutes after his lover leaves. Finally he shrugs. "Sorry miss. The only one who can help you is yourself."

 _Immortal_

 _Mouth_

 _Monster_

Peter looks to the girl beside him. He doesn't dare move from his spot or open his mouth. He feels a breeze from outside, faint, against the back of his jeans. Having been the victim of Rainy's wrath once before, the mutant only grows concerned—concerned of what she will say and is to happen.

Her tone is cut, stony. "I've been fed that stage line by many other people. All of them were frauds. Don't tell me you're just like them, Wish Granter?"

Peter almost jumps when the man laughs. "You're feisty, huh? So straightforward." And it's like he's studying her. Not quite judging, but not quite _honest_ either. "Did something _bad_ happen to you?"

Rainy isn't smiling. Peter isn't sure if he's ever seen her smile. She doesn't speak either.

"Well, anyway," the man continues, slapping his knees. "If you don't tell me, then there's nothing to be discussed. I keep secrets well. It'll be alright..."

Something doesn't appear right and seems... _off_. And then it hits him. Now, Peter could put a finger to the man's look: the smile of a deceitful, conniving man. A liar.

Rainy _had_ been right, he realizes.

"Here, let me give the gist of it," the mutant begins.

"No need for that. I'll do it myself." She steps forward. "I can speak for myself."

* * *

"So, since you say you think I'm the one who took all your...emotions and memories and whatnot, can you tell me what assistant had been by my side at the time? Maybe that can jog my memory—-"

"That is of little importance. It is you, solely you, who stole my feelings and emotions and memories. Your assistant was just a show monkey."

"Was that a _literal_ show monkey, or..."

Peter shakes his head. Rainy's deaden, assertive expression doesn't waver.

Halil, Wish Granter, shrugs it off, reaches for a hookah pipe on a small table beside his pillow seat. "Well, can you tell me a memory? I see many clients, you know." Inhales from the pipe.

Rainy shows him the photo in her locket again, holding the necklace by the chain, dangling a mouse in front of a cat. "This woman here. I don't have any memories of her anymore."

The _W_ _ish Granter_ thinks. "Seems familiar... I tell you, you're one of the fortunate ones."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Memories are vast. They change shape and deform and reconstruct easily and quicker than imagined. We can alter them subconsciously and re-imagine what has never happens, effortlessly. To have a perfect memory is rare. It's a _gift_ , a _talent_."

"Talent?" Peter blurts before realizing.

"Yes. And not unlike those who can lift fifty times their weight or fly or perform other seeming impossible feats—in my opinion. Like the Madam Polinski who foresaw your arrival." He's referring to the two-heads fortuneteller.

Peter's eyes widen.

Talent

 _Mutants_

"To be able to see other's memories is another talent that not many possess. Do you have any special talents, young lady?"

"That is a pointless question, isn't it?"

Halil looks to the other teen. "How about you, young man?"

Peter bites his lip. His fingers fidget. Curl into a fist, unclench. "No," he lies. He hopes that this so-calls wish-granter couldn't detect lies either.

Halil turns back to the stolid-faced one. "Well, you didn't become this way by accident, just in the result of something. Your...perspective's just changed, is all." He's saying this all very lightheartedly. He takes a drag from the hookah pipe, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils.

"Perspective? What are you trying to say?"

The man draws another lungful, exhaling it as he talks. "I'm saying that your _oh so pitiful_ look is bothering me, miss."

The last thing Peter would have described Rainy as is _pitiful_. And looks nervously back and forth between the two, noticing that Halil has barely blinked, and fearful for what Rainy will say, of something disrespectful she could say. The pseudo-shaman did so only once as he and Rainy study each other, not exactly glaring but not exactly testing either.

Finally, the man closes his eyes. His bald head gleams in the candlelight and his blonde eyebrows are almost invisible. "Most people would become unnerved—like your classmate here. And honestly, I thought you were just a spoiled little miss." She asks why he thinks so. Halil replies: "a lot of the people who come to see me are. Either spoiled or very privileged. These procedures don't usually last this long. Not commonly. I never really made sure or not. But then again, I don't _usually_ run into past clients. Regardless, if this can be reversed or not, if you _truly_ wish for everything back, all that burden and heartache and pain, I can help you."

"You will help me?" Rainy repeats for emphasis, to be certain. "No strings attached?"

 _End flashback_

* * *

It's nighttime. The full moon shines bright in the clear, starless sky; power lines and apartment building block it from view.

"You know I never suspected that you'd live in a regular house," Peter admits. "I'd always assume you'd live somewhere more extravagant. Like a mansion or something?"

The sound of shower water hitting tile could be heard from the hallway.

The young mutant sits, leaning against one of the walls of her parents' home they've returned to. "Maybe next time I need a place to crash or hide, I'll come to you!" It's a joke. The laugh is withered and dry. "You have enough space here."

A cup of juice sits half empty on the kitchen table. The dining room lights are off; the only lights on in the home are her bedroom and the hallways, besides the bathroom of course. The shower water swirls down the shower drain. A used bar of lavender-scents soap sits in the porcelain shower dish.

"My mother got involved in a...organization, you can call it, when I was younger." Rainy tilts her head up toward the showerhead. Her ombre brown hair reaches between her shoulder blades when drenched. On one shoulder blade there's a tattoo of a cloud dropping blue raindrops into a blue puddle. "She sold some of our valuables as payment, for drugs, for money. And when my father figured why some of our things went missing, he became angry, I remember. But she had already acquired a huge debt with her hippie groupies. And by that time she'd become addicts to the attention, the drugs, going out late. She didn't have a job soon after."

As she stands under the warm water, her skin gains a red tint from the steaming temperature. She couldn't feel it. Rainy places her hands over her chest, on her thigh, and still not a sensory receptor goes off.

Peter fingers the rim of his glass that holds Kool-Aid juice, listening to her through the walls.

"That's when I thought my parents were going to file for divorce. I figured that my father would be the one to have custody over me—it seems logical and most likely—and I remember feeling worried about my mother. My grandmother—her mother—has died not too long before and she was going through a rough stage. My father tried to help her but she denied that there was anything wrong, and told me to just focus on school. She's the one who convinced me to start sports in middle school."

Peter straightens against the wall. There's only one wall and the bathroom door that separates them from each other.

The water slides down her olive skin, and she watches it gather and fall from her bellybutton and cupped palms. She can't feel any of it. Wonders what the last thing she did feel had been. What the feel of grass is, steam against her face, her mother's kisses. Rainy's eyes are wide, brightly colored, and remembering.

 ** _. . .  
. . ._**

 _Flashback_

Back then, no more than two hours ago, darkness had just fallen. The two teens were out the under makeshift shelter. Insects sing. Peter jumps at an owl's hoot.

 _The only one who can help you is yourself_

 _Halil had said_

 _You know that, don't you, young lady_

"Are you going to help me?" Rainy asks.

This _W_ _ish Granter_ continues staring at the two with his cheek in one hand, baldness gleaming, sitting cross-legged on a pillow, and one of his pale blonde eyebrows arches. And Peter realizes how this man is _so pale_ and is far too _American_ for his self-proclaimed shaman title. He definitely is a fake shaman, is probably a fake wish-granter too. He looks to Rainy, skeptical on his own.

"I won't help you. I will, however, lend you power to contract with those forces _beyond_."

Rainy blinks. Peter wonders if she is truly buying this lie.

He catches one of the candles nearest Halil flicker out.

"Oh, and please take a trip home. When you get there, cleanse your body with holy water and change into a set of pure clothes," the pseudo-magic man instructs. "Does meeting me back here around midnight sound convenient?"

Peter looks for approval from the girl he's come with.

She nods. "Very."

"Ok. ...Now, the reward?"

Peter makes a noise of confusion.

The deceitful man smiles. "What? You thought I would be doing this for free?" His eyes oogle her, traveling up her height to her high, sleek ponytail, down to her bright eyes and complexion, her full lips, her throat, her bosom.

Rainy blinks. Pauses. "How does $400 sound?"

Peter's jaw drops but he doesn't dare speak. He stares at her incredulously.

"$400, huh?" Halil considers. "Do you think you can _pay it_ , little lady?"

Pause.

"Of course. No matter what I have to do."

Peter's eyes widen even more. Halil's focus carries a sinister undertone, blinking only once.

 _End flashback_

 ** _. . .  
. . ._**

"Do you really believe him?" Peter asks loud enough for her to hear over the shower water.

In real time, he's staring at the turning fan on her bedroom ceiling and listening to Rainy's echoing voice. Listening. Daydreaming. He is lying on the carpet, arms outstretched, cup of juice empty.

"N. It is him, I remember. If he's able to take it, he can give it back."

The mutant muses this over. _'$400...'_ He's never even seen that much money in his life, and just the thought of it...

His left hand curls into a fist.

His twin would probably be suspicious by now. Very likely is. Marya too. His youngest sister is no doubly asleep, and Aunt Marya would be worried sick. He knows that she has to be by now. She had been working late and would see that he's still gone.

"Say? Rainy?" He doesn't get a reply and so continues. "I met a friend of yours I think. Her name's Cherry or Sherry and she said that you went to the hospital not long ago. Are you sure you're up for this? I mean are you sure you're able to? You won't pass out or die and leave me with that creep will you?" He doesn't want to say that she shouldn't do this at all, but...

He waits, still no immediate response.

"Sherry told me that she ran into you at school. And yes, I'm sure." Before he could ask if she is truly certain, she adds, "You remember when I said that the carnival only comes every three years? I don't think I'll get another chance to do this."

The shower water turns off.

While that may be true, _still_ —

Maybe—maybe he shouldn't say it.

"Yeah I remember..."

Closing his eyes partially, he couldn't believe that he's here and _actually_ going through with this. Can't believe that he's set himself to get tangled up with someone like her— _with_ her. Sure, he's _known of_ Rainy for years—she isn't exactly unknown with her father's face on billboards all over town—has only spoken with her when _absolutely needed_. But this—this is _absurd_. This is way too much than he intended for. She's just supposed to be an easy ticket, a resource for him to mooch off of; he isn't supposed to become some assistant in some life-altering meeting.

This is crazy, absurd, and he should just leave.

He hears her feet slap against the tile bathroom floor. She's pretty heavy-footed.

But then he thinks—remembers about the past couple months. Of studying, or trying to and failing, of just listening to her reading or snarking and trying desperately to either hold in a smile or not being _too_ rude and not get thrown out her house. Remembers her cursive handwriting, and terrible social and math skills, and the scabbed over chemical burn on her arm from chemistry class two years ago. She has terrible fashion sense—and he decides that she really _does_ need help.

 _"I cannot feel_

 _I have no emotions either"_

 _Monster_

He still has the paper wristband on from the carnival admission. They are their passes to getting back in the carnival. Halil signed it and wrote some message in permanent marker and that Peter couldn't fully read.

 _"I have no feeling of touch...  
I have no emotion..._

 _There's no feeling to me,_

 _Nothing whatsoever._

 _I'm empty._

 _Cursed_

 _I'm a monster."_

The teen should probably leave—he's hungry and bored to add. But then the bathroom door opens down the hall and he wonders how she would take it if he suddenly disappears. She needs help after all...

Rainy is standing in the doorway to her bedroom now, one towel wrapped around her body and another around her hair, water still drying on her shoulders.

"Get out of my room."

The boy scampers out at surprising speed. Only when the door slams close behind him does he call back. "Could you not have been a _little_ decent?"

"You're in my house, in my room. Rules don't work to cater you here."

He isn't able to give a comeback as a hairdryer switches on from inside her room and he's left alone with his thoughts.

* * *

An hour later the two are back on the carnival grounds. Peter makes sure to stick close to her until they reach Halil's tent. It's pitch dark. Luckily, there are lights strung and torches situated throughout the grounds. The rides are off and the main tent silent and dark. Peter jumps at a rat scampering, of figures walking just out of the carnival light. He thinks he and Rainy are the only customers here.

He hesitates when they arrive; holds an arm out to stop Rainy until both have adjusted to the low lighting inside Halil's personal tent. Though, even then he almost doesn't want to go forward. He doesn't trust this suspicious man, doesn't trust this place, and surely doesn't want her going forward if this is all a scam.

Halil is already waiting for them inside, dressed in an equal sham of a "traditional" outfit.

"I told you: I can take care of myself." Rainy pushing past Peter's arm and walks inside.

There had been danger signs he hadn't noticed before posted around the carnival grounds. And he became even more unsure, nervous, and anxious reading them during their journey.

 _Watch out for—_

 _Danger Danger Danger Danger_

 _Monster_

 _Eye_

There are movements about the carnival, but that's all behind them, literally. He suspects that it must be the other performers. Privately, he's relieved he hadn't seen that three-eyed woman again, and the thought causes a chill to run up his spine.

But his man, this liar, Halil, is no better.

Rainy approaches the man standing past the threshold of the tent. The inside resembles a short hallway. She's dressed in all white: a simple white dress, white overcoat, and white dress shoes bought from a thrift store. The mutant teen is in his same clothes before.

 _Suspend_

 _Danger Watch out Watch out Suspend_

 _Monster Eye_

The man has cleared out the inside of the main room of is tent, save for the candles, one stationed at every corner. The shadows are thicker here. Halil looks the teen girl over, something suspicious glinting in his eyes, and Peter has to admit that the man _really_ _could_ pass as a shaman at first glance, especially in this low lighting.

The man then begins to speak: "I've thought about a lot of things." He looks Rainy over, less intense as before but still giving a rise in Peter's blood. "You look like you've been purified nicely, little miss. Well done. May I ask if you used any holy water?"

"No, I don't own any. Though I thought hot water would take care of it just fine." She remains emotionless, voice steady. Peter's afraid his voice would croak.

Halil grins, states that it is no problem. Pulls out a small bottle of it from an inside breast pocket, it labeled _Holy Water_ , begins dabbing it across Rainy's collarbone. Peter is _bristling_ , almost fuming.

"Just to confirm, are you wearing any makeup?"

"I thought it would be best not to."

Halil nods. "Has your classmate showered as well?"

Peter tries not to let the acid seep into his words as he tells he's taken one at her house, easy.

"One thing remains." Halil pauses. He points at Rainy's legs, indicating her white pantyhose. "You must take those off."

Now, Peter is sure that _he_ doesn't trust or even _like_ this man. But he isn't in any position to object. Rainy reaches under her dress and rolls her stockings into a messy bundle. He is sure to look away, taking and stuffing them in his jacket pocket by her silent ask.

"And you, young man, please remove your hat."

The mutant hesitates to do so. He doesn't miss the rise of Halil's brows when his grey hair is exposed. The man now appears very amused.

The faux magic man positions his hands. It's time to begin, he instructs. They follow Halil further into the tent in a single file line. Peter hopes that nothing outrageous will happen, that he wouldn't be murdered or kidnapped or drugged or the like. He isn't ready to die, he's too young to die—and of course he starts to panic.

"By the way," the teen asks, breaking the silent, clears his throat. "Would this be easy to take care of? Like, there aren't any ghosts involved in this or things like that, right? 'Cause...'cause that could be _dangerous_."

Halil chuckles. "Remember when I said that the young lady is fortunate? That is because we will be dealing—not with ghosts, my friends—but spirits. So you must be respectful."

" _Spirits!_?"

"Yes," the man speaks. "They have no tolerance for disrespect and are very powerful. ...Now first, you must talk about something good that's happened, and then we must begin to pray."

"Wait, is something going to be payed in return for, you know, her—-her emotions and memories? This isn't going to be an empty trip, man. Don't make this an empty trip."

Halil's eyes narrow as he glares at the mutant from over his shoulder. "I assure you, this won't be an _empty trip_. The spirits won't ignore a desperate wish if the person asking is genuine. If we're to summon them and have them hear us, you must follow what I say."

"They aren't, you know, _evil_ , are they?"

"Not if you don't piss them off," is his answer to Peter.

They enter the center of the tent, a wide empty space with high ceiling that is nearly the size of a kitchen. It's been cleared and devoid of any furniture, any hookah, and only has charms and beads hanging from the walls, symbols drawn on the ground. Halil tells Rainy to stand in the center of the room, inside a large circle of foreign coins all turned on their tails.

Three candles are lined up on a small table along the front wall, melting in their wooden dishes. The middle flame flickers, almost blowing out. There isn't wind inside.

Reaching under the tablecloth of the table with the candles, Halil pulls out a small cup and hands it to Rainy.

"What's this?"

He remains unruffled and tranquil. "Alcohol shortens the distance between our realm and _the next one_."

Peter watches, heartbeat quickening.

"I'm underage."

"You won't be drinking 'til you drop. Just this bit."

She does as she's told, emptying the filled shot glass. Peter's nose wrinkles.

"Now, if the little lady will speak of a good memory, or something fortunate that's happened." He is standing in front of her, outside the circle of coins. "Close your eyes."

She obeys. Peter watches and not convinced, remaining further behind and near the entrance of the large room.

"Breathe in positive energy. Exhale the negative. ...What is something good that has happened recently? A good memory."

Rainy's mouth opens. She thinks. "Nothing has. I can't think of anything."

"Nothing?"

Peter calls from the back, hesitant at first, if there really is _nothing_ she can think of, asks her to think about the party—but she hadn't attended. Or about when she told off that douche Marcus—she "hadn't found pleasure in that." Or about her family, her friends, a book she's read—but she explains that those were all out of necessity, to appear normal, or to pass time. Then he asks, "think about...your past boyfriends or something?" And she tells that their short tempers and that she couldn't understand their reasoning, and so the relationship never lasted

"What about Popsicle, the Popsicle? You can't go wrong with those, right?" He almost doesn't want to say.

She considers. "...I guess so."

She thinks about the times she could remember with them: sitting with her mother on the front porch in the heat of summer years ago; when she was tiny, she and her father would eat some right out the box still at the grocery store, before purchase; eating them with Sherry during the summer break; at home, presently, and usually alone. When she would hear her parents in the living room and she'd be in her room, eating as a pass-time before they melt. Or recently, when Peter asked for a break from studying and both had been on the back porch as the late evening turned to night.

"Are you remembering," Halil inquires.

"Yes. Faintly, but yes."

"Now, relax. This part is all up to you. Keep your eyes closed and bow your head. Begin to count." He looks to Peter's skewered expression. "You too."

Both teens inhale. "One. ...Two. ...Three. ...Four."

Peter cracks open an eye. He sees Halil standing behind her now, performing some kind of full-body dance, a silent chant, he thinks.

"...Eight. ...Nine. ...Ten..."

Rainy is asked if she is finally relaxed. After answering "yes," she is then asked to speak her name, the name of her school, and her birthdate. A reveal of an embarrassing situation when she was younger is the next question, which she doesn't reveal. Then her favorite type of music—she doesn't care for music—and the name of her parents. How it felt entering into high school is the next question, which she answers, "I didn't have any emotions at the time." And what type of person had been her first crush—it too was something she rather not tell. And finally, for her to place her locket, open, picture facing up, at the top of the circle of coins, inside the circle.

Halil stops his elaborate dance, now standing still behind Rainy, and is inside the circle of coins also. "Final question: until today, what has been your most painful memory?"

Another candle flickers.

Peter watches; she doesn't answer.

"What's wrong?" Halil doesn't get a reply; Rainy's eyes are still closed. "What is your most painful memory?"

Peter remains silent, watching from the back of the room. There is no sound from within the tent. The faint flutter of a bird outside is the only breaker of the silence.

Rainy's voice comes out forced. "My—-my mother."

"Why your mother?"

"...She—-she got immersed in a swinger's club."

 _Answer the question_

"Is that all?"

"What do you mean _'is that all'_?"

 _Answer the question_

"Continue. ...What happened?"

Rainy takes in a long breath. Peter watches Halil flick a hand of water into the air, then place his fingers on her, one at the base of her neck, the other on the small of her back over her coat. All three's shadows dance by the light of the candles.

"...A man came to my house once. My mother had said that he was really important, and to be polite to him. My mother had brought him there."

"Brought him _there_? What happens next? Do you remember?"

"Not really."

 _Hand_

Halil flexes his wrists. Places them back on the teen.

"I remember him being upset. Angry, I think. And my mother looking distressed, but after that, nothing. It jumps to the man gone and her forcing a smile at me, but I know that she's upset." She pauses. "Sometimes I think that, maybe, my mother wouldn't have fallen into her pathetic state if it had all gone differently. I remember that it was over my grandmother...and then that man...and that I can't quite remember. And I know it bothers her. And maybe then our relationship wouldn't be so...broken...?"

The tall mutant, Halil, looks at the picture inside the locket on the ground. "I see. ...And these are your feelings, the ones that you wish to be restored?"

Rainy hesitates, nods. "Yes. I want them back. I want to remember—all of it. I want it all back. I want to face my mother. I want it all back."

"No matter how heavy they are, are these the feelings that you wish to regain, and these memories that have obviously troubled you? They will be things that only you must carry, without pushing them on anyone else." He positions his hands on her, fingers lightly gracing her clothes and her skin.

She nods. "Yes, I know." She pauses, and Halil's fingers on her neck press into her skin, nails breaking the surface.

"Why, miss? Please explain why do you want this so badly—make sure your intentions are pure."

Rainy hesitates. Surprisingly, this is the longest pause she's made. "I know caring for your friends is important and I want to be able to do that. I haven't been able to see my grandparents because I don't want them to find out what I've done. I...I want to be able to hug my mother. I want to remember my grandmother."

Halil blinks, his face grave. "Ah, there it is." He forces his hands forward, jerking Rainy's body and fingertips digging _inside_ her skin.

She falls with a cry of pain.

 _She falls with a cry of pain_.

 _She cries out in pain._

 ** _. . .  
. . ._**

 _In the end, this is still a question on self-reflection_

Two candles flicker out.

A flashback

It seems that when Rainy Capulet's mother became completely immersed in a swinger's club, Rainy had been in sixth grade.

 _"But it had been the third time I was awoken at night. And I remember—-I remember seeing the two of them sitting on my parent's bed."_

 _She had been suspicious though—mainly curious and annoyed—when she noticed that the spare room in their home was being used increasingly, and her parents' bedroom started to hold a different lingering scent in the air._

 _Open the mind's eye_

Her grandmother passed away a year before due to a serious illness, and her mother was finding it difficult to cope. Rainy's mother's side of the family had always been closely knit. Her mother was one of those who took the death the hardest. Truthfully, her mother became addicted to drugs as a result. As time ticked by she searched for a way to numb the pain. Then, Rainy's father finalized his decision to pursue a career in politics, and her mother hadn't taken kindly to it—Rainy's mother had _disagreed_ with it, to put it nicely, and many times have threatened to leave and take her daughter with her.

This is where Rainy got the assumption that her parents were disagreeing. This is where the dysfunction began to escalate.

Eventually, Rainy felt abandoned. Her father's office job required him to put in more hours _—_ not like he's home much either. Her mother was becoming increasingly distant, and the family soon moved to a new town. Eventually, the girl began seeking attention elsewhere.

Her grandmother had been close to with her granddaughter. So seeing her mother suddenly rarely ever home, her father already holding a consuming job, Rainy quickly and easily misinterpreted their absence and arguments as signs of oncoming divorce. She felt to be dealing with the death of her grandmother alone, and sudden responsibilities and anxiety of starting her new school weighed on her young shoulders. As time ticked by, she's feeding herself dinner, checking her own homework, reminding her mother to job-search, to keep an eye on the woman when she's high off her horse and feeding her when she comes down. Rainy has the numbers to the doctors and dentists and local hospital and poison control ready in case of emergency.

She entered high school already an adult.

Sure, her mother dealt with the death in one of the worse ways, but at the funeral, Rainy had been passes right over. Patted on the head and hugged with the same routine line of pity. Adults hushed around her because this _must_ be too heavy for her _young mind_. Conversations changed and the expectation was that she would forget it all, that her immediate family would be there to hug her at night while her extended would be heard of three weeks after.

Rainy had been close to her grandmother. She was given the nickname Pot of Gold (at the end of the rainbow), and Golden Child. Goldie. This stemmed from her golden complexion and bright eyes, both inherited form her mixed-race parents. She's spent many summers with her grandparents, and nights alone when her parents are busy before they all moved, before the woman passed.

 _Her grandmother is a creamy chocolate of the south._

 _The wrinkled dark-skinned woman in the locket picture laughing with a young, olive-skinned child._

But Rainy's mother begun finding comfort in a friend of hers who introduced her to the swinger's lifestyle when Rainy was young. She then began finding comfort in this friend, this sort of colleague, and then with others who are practical strangers—both men and women—at this club. It wasn't exactly a secret to her husband—because they agreed to this. They agreed on an open marriage when she stated that she was feeling neglected when his hours increased.

After that, Rainy began seeing her mother less and less, arguing increased in the household, and their relationship became strained. And then...just before entering the year prior to high school, an incident occurred. Rainy's father hadn't been home. One day, her mother brought a man home whom she met at the club. An _important_ man, she tells. A selfish and greedy and rich man, he was.

 _A frown contorts her face as she spat a response to him._

 _"Three horns, white lizard-looking devil!"_

Desire

Palm of the hand

Strange

 _He had been angry_

Hands hands hands hands hands

He was a selfish, moral-less man, one of the managers of the swinger's club.

Rainy's mother had wanted her daughter to join in the lifestyle, using her own story that she first began dabbling onto this road of drugs and sex around Rainy's own age, around the starting of high school. (Which was a shame in the family, and her grandmother always scolded about it. It was also a lie, because Donna had only tried an uncle's cigarette when he was out of the room, and which she found incredibly distasteful.) But Rainy had refused and the man was dissatisfied. Her mother, Donna, had to beg to remain in the club, even settling with increasing her monthly membership fee. Because of this, she began selling their belongings—jewelry, the husband's pens and cuff links, the figurines and china given by her mother.

And when her husband found out, Rainy's mother was disappointed in her daughter, shamefully so. She twisted the blame to be on Rainy for telling her father. The girl began to feel guilty, and feeling responsible for her parents' troubles, went to seek help.

 _3_

 _2_

 _1_

 _0_

This resulted in Rainy seeking advice and help at Halil the Wish Granter's tent three years ago.

 _"I came to you with two other girls, one with red hair, one with bushy black."_

 _"And wished it all to go away, that I didn't have to feel my mother's disappointment anymore._

 _What cruel, irony._

 _Be careful of how you word your wishes, Maximoff."_

The breakup of her family didn't happen, as predicted. But now, Rainy has no recollection of her happy memories of her grandmother, and no bodily feeling and no emotion. She couldn't feel her mother's apology in either way when she was hugged remorseful, only giving a blank, deaden stare in return. She heard her mother cry that night and didn't feel an ounce of guilt. Rainy couldn't enjoy or relate to her friends and thus lost many of them. The only two she has left are Sherry and Michelle, the latter holding on by a string because of Rainy's emotionless state. As the victim to the performer's mutant act, Rainy was hospitalized because she almost bled out once, and leaves her home when she's not steady, walking and seeing how long she could last, sometimes without food or much sleep. She does it out of curiosity. She does it because she's bored. Because she has nothing better to do. Because she can. Because _what else_ does she have to lose?

When she came to Halil, Rainy cut all ties with her mother, her father, and much of her family so she could stop feeling troubled regarding such matters, just like she wished.

She chose to cheat herself.

 _End of flashback_

 ** _. . .  
. . ._**

As the man finishes the story, he licks his lips.

Stunned, Peter watches the wish-granter remain kneeling at Rainy's side, her body still and unmoving on the ground, his fingers still inside her skin. Peter sees that Halil's eyes are closed. A tear rolls from Rainy's eye.

He shouts, "what the hell did you do?" He's at the other's side a second later, fist high, pulling back and ready to strike.

Hall's tone is loud, but not nearly a yell, not like Peter's. "Don't move her," he warns, and Peter's fist freezes, hesitates. "You'll break the connection and disrupt the ceremony!"

The speedster taking one more look at the man, the other's fingertips disappearing into the back of the girl's neck. His eyes darken, and he fists the collar of Halil's robes instead. "This _is not_ a _goddamn ceremony_!" This man is _killing_ her, he just knows.

Peter grits his teeth. Halil remains still, calm.

"I'm not doing her any harm—"

"You have your _fingers_ in her _skin_!"

"—This is merely a part of it. Do not disrupt the spirits. They're almost finished performing—"

" _Bullshit_!"

"—And in just another minute, your friend will be just as well as she was before. Before." He looks to the other mutant at his side. "I promise." For once, he sounds sincere.

And then Peter sees. It's barely there, but as he watches, there indeed are _ripples_ flowing from under the sleeves of Halil's robes, down his hands, down to Rainy's neck, into her back. It's as if their _skin_ is rippling, like a leaf touching the surface of a pond. It is barely there, but it _is_.

He stares at the man incredulously, in complete dismay. Rainy still doesn't move, and Peter begins to panic.

But surely, less than a minute longer, Halil removes his hands. His fingernails are lightly tainted red from her blood. He states that they are done here. "Don't fret. She isn't dead, just unconscious. She should wake in an hour or so." Halil slowly gets to his feet, knees and joints cracking. "You do know that this procedure isn't going to make her family better? That those unbearable feelings of her mother, her memories, her frustration and fear, nothing can change—nothing will change. Make sure to remind her that."

Absorption  
of the Mind and Body

 _Mutant_

The man continues speaking. His voice is tired, looking from the girl on the ground to the quick-tempered teen beside him. "You know," he rolls his neck. "It isn't such a _bad_ thing, but it would have really been informative if you would have been truthful and told that you were mutant." He catches the teen's frown deepen.

Peter doesn't reply and merely bends down to hook one arm behind Rainy's neck and the other under her knees. There is a steady dribble of blood from the injuries in her neck and back that wouldn't be noticed until later. Giving a shrug, he adjusts Rainy in his arms to make sure he has a good hold.

The teen gives the man a black look. "Pervert," he spits.

Placing a hand over the girl's forehead, he secures her neck from snapping back and breaking. He leans onto one knee, readying, positioning, and then he's gone.

An envelope containing the four hundred dollars payment is left on the ground. Rainy stole it from both of her parents.


	25. 22: peace prevail (Episode 9)

_**A/N** **:** **The final one is next.**_

* * *

Of the following week, Sherbrooke High is closed. There had been a body discovered in one of the downstairs restrooms, a former student hung by the throat. It made a three minute coverage on the local news channel the next night, and a section in the newspaper obituary is printed days later.

In the first week, the high school is wrapped in police caution tape like present ribbons. Forensics who rule out the death as suicide.

It hasn't been long since Spirit Week ended, and many of the students are anxious to find out what would happen for the remainder of the year, of what event would define this school year, what the senior students would be remembered by and going out with what bang.

 _Sadistic, really_

They surely found out

They all found out what event will mark this school year when the school reopened. That next week, word immediately began circulating as expected, and reportedly, most of the late student's former friends attended the funeral. There are rumors that the restroom is now haunted, and very few—if any at all—dared to enter it. During the first week back, classes are lenient and not many put up a fuss. There are no students sent to the principal's office. No lunch fights, no sports team rivalries. For once, everyone is remorseful, respectful.

It's quiet, un-flustered, improper. It is unorthodox, different. It's out of character.

Wanda almost doesn't return either, even begged her aunt to let her take a sick day. The girl quickly changes her mind, however, when told that she could stay home _only_ if she watches her little sister.

The school lunches haven't changed, unfortunately. Meatloaf is sold four days in a row. The lunch line has grown significantly shorter than and thus less trays are served.

Overall, most carried on normally as if nothing has been different, as if nothing has changed.

And for many, it hasn't.

Spirit Week is over, so everything is returning to normal. Normal, scheduled, and receptive.

After the house party the Friday of Spirit Week, Peter's locker had been filled with notes, threats scrawled in red inside folded pieces of paper. They had been left by Clarice, he knew. Iit _had_ to be. But the notes weren't the worst part of the blonde's rage—word as it that Mckenzie "cheated" with her unofficial-yet-unspokenly-official senior grade boyfriend at the time. _MCKENZIE SHABOTZ IS A SLUT_ had been spray-painted in pink on the blue lockers, "slut" _coincidentally_ covering Mckenzie's locker door.

In his mind, Peter received the softer blow of Clarice's rage, though the wording on her many Post-It notes would greatly beg to differ. It also still does not change the fact that so many knew that _he_ had been the one who had been found with the popular queen's once-best friend. And his ears would _burn_ and he'd fidget because he imagines the stares and the whispers and assumptions and the judgment.

At this point, Wanda is glad that not many know of her and Peter's relation.

And so Mckenzie didn't appear often. Word has it that she would be transferring at the end of the school year. Some ridiculed her for her decision, tearing her down and stating that she is unworthy of her popular queen status, that she is too cowardly, too reckless. And Clarice had been at the head of all these accusation, the source of them all. (It's no wonder why the other doesn't wish to return.)

By the second week, Sherry continues to carry on as her smiling, optimistic self and makes it her duty and her pleasure to have her _new redhead friend_ hooked around her arm all free hours between classes. And Meisha would be spotted by her two mutant friends when in the hallways, being dragged along. She is always anxious, always worried, and only sends small half-smiles to Peter and Ronny until she stops doing so altogether.

CHANGE

It's two months since Spirit Week. Summer break is approaching. Final exams will be starting.

Sometime during the week, one of the gym teachers has their class run the length of the outside track, _twice_. There's word that they weren't been very proud of a favorite student of theirs who quit running early, grown tired sooner than before. But it's humid outside at the cause of the warmer seasons, and that is the justifiable reason that changed gym classes to remain indoors for the rest of the year.

The police had been called in the middle of that week for a false alarm, but word circled that a student had passed out during lab.

Wanda actively, adamantly avoided Troy Baxter and his new blonde _-betty_ girlfriend. After her aunt found out about the situation from hearing the girl weeping into her bed sheets, the teen had been given a long talk. Marya emphasized that it hadn't been Wanda's fault that it didn't work out, and sometimes this happens; sometimes people aren't as sincere as they seem in the beginning, and those type of people are better to be avoided. And now, the young mutant has to try to abide by that life advice. It's difficult but she tries to return to school with a higher head—figuratively, of course—rolls her hood back just a little more, and speaks up.

"And I want to bet you that he's going to end up hurting that girl too. He's just trash, _draga_ ," Wanda had been told. "You're better than him. Don't ever let yourself be defined by some _boy_."

Across town, the land lot where the Eccentric Carnival had been is now empty. A full popcorn dispenser and flyers were the only evidence left of its existence. No one since has entered the lot.

Elsewhere as the weekend approached, several tools were reported to have mysteriously vanished from a hardware store. An entire shelf of Hostess snacks disappear from a grocery store a day later.

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It's been three weeks now and there hasn't been any bizarre outbreaks, no wild assumptions that break papers or made the nightly headlines. Nothing on the news about a suspicious traveling carnival, and nothing about lawsuits made by the Capulets about the carnival—not that Peter is looking for that in particular.

All seem to be well.

Peter returns to school alongside his twin, but she quickly leaves his side to join the crowd to find her suddenly new, suddenly _more important_ group of associates. The mutant wonders the halls of the school with his hands deep in his pockets and inhaling his second McDonald's breakfast biscuit nabbed that morning.

It's been three weeks since returning from the carnival that had disappeared the day after Rainy met with the Wish Granter. There had been a few nightmares Peter experienced, but he successfully keeps them hidden lest he be forced to reveal where he had been that night. It hadn't been much, but the night at the carnival weeks ago, after slipping an unconscious Rainy into what he hoped had been her bedroom, he left with a feeling surging in his chest that's both rewarding and fleeting. But that had been a while ago and doesn't much matter now.

The teen approaches his locker and spins the dial. The school halls are swarming and the hall monitors would be coming out soon. He ducks in time avoiding a flying paper ball meant for the kid a foot away, the thrower having terrible aim.

The halls are abuzz with conversation, of talk about the recent suicide, of the past weekend, of rumors and unfinished homework and mean teachers.

All seem to be well.

Peter grabs a science and history textbook from inside the locker he's finally using and stuffs them into his school bag. When he turns, he's met by the puffed chest belonging to one of the high school's football players. Peter looks up and realizes that this is someone he's seen before, someone who he's seen hanging around Thomas, an old ex-friend of his from middle school.

It's been three weeks that Peter has heard from Ronny and Meisha. Despite, he hasn't tried to communicate to them much. Not yet, at least. He would see Ronny in the hall sometimes, head still bowed and solemn. He would see Meisha still near that smiling girl, that one one who's an apparent friend of Rainy's—Cherry, he thinks her name is. He would see his friends sooner or later. Tough, he can't deny that they all have become somewhat stand-offish and are growing apart, though he wouldn't like to admit it. And he's already cooking a plan to get them back together.

At the lockers before classes began, the mutant shoulders past the ball player that persists on instigating a fight. Peter calls over his shoulder that he'd only wind the other out too easily, that the athlete better save his energy for the next game for when he loses again. The ball player fumes and storms after the mutant who takes off down the hall and into the crowd of students, not quite at superhuman speed but fast enough to get away effortlessly.

It's been three weeks since Peter has heard anything about or from Rainy Capulet. Almost certain now that they are the only ones that knew of the circumstances that occurred late that Saturday night, he begins to wonder if something had happened because of her absence—that she _had_ died, that she had _actually become_ gravely ill like so many thought she is. Had she truly not woken up? Or, whether her folks decided to take their matters elsewhere or perform some legal action? He wonders if she would rat him out and tell that he'd been there during the faux ceremony as well. He wonders if she would blame everything on him.

Surely doing all this with her is a mistake? It has to be. It has to be.

Having been involved is like holding a gun to the mouth

In days passing, the mutant glanced around in the crowds to see if he _just happened_ to catch sight of her, whether it is a glimpse of brown hair, tacky tie-dye shirt, or hear of a rally about a bitter comeback spoken. But there's been nothing. There is nothing. And all around him has become utterly _boring._

 _He begins to worry_

That girl, Cherry—he's afraid to approach her now because he sees the way Meisha has become and she appear to be a bit _happier_ too, and he doesn't want to _ruin_ that. And he doesn't want to discuss this with Ronny either—whenever he finally _sees_ him—who too gives off an air of wanting space.

 _He is misinterpreting it all_

But Peter doesn't ask about it, because he _isn't_ looking for Rainy, and it isn't like he _cares,_ anyway. That would be stupid. That would be absurd, bogus, deranged.

He isn't.

* * *

It's Friday and school has been cancelled.

Not really, but under his personal proposition it is.

To be more direct, it's Friday and Peter is skipping school. His twin would be annoys with him, he knows, and his aunt even more but that holds little effect or persuasion for him. It's already late in the afternoon and the final bell would ringing in the next approaching hour and students would finally be released from classes. So far, he's been wondering town alone, headphones on full volume.

When awaking too late to catch the bus that morning, he called to Wanda that he's had been getting dressed and would meet her at school when truly it's just going to be him and his thoughts for today.

He doesn't feel like attending. He's too impatient, too short-tempered, operates far too quickly, and decides that it's just going to be a "Me Day."

Rainy Reptile

 _Rainy Capulet is cold-blooded, and as a joke, has been compared to lizards and reptiles_

 _Along with her offish personality_

 _"Don't take this the wrong way but you're as cold as ice with an attitude like a cactus," Peter told her once_

He groans, runs a hand through his grey hair then readjusts his baseball cap before anyone could see his abnormally premature hair color.

Dark clouds are rolling forward on waves out in the distance. The boy cranes his head back, watching, ruminating. It's mid afternoon on a Friday and he is almost certain that there shouldn't be as many kids at the park as there are. He came here as a pit stop after lunch ended and from visiting five fast-food restaurants across town for brunch. Reassumed that this had been a safe place to come.

Sometimes he comes here so he can be alone, where he feels like he's the only person in the world, where adversity doesn't exist and time isn't an issue.

A one-year-old kid pushes his twin down the slide when the latter takes too long to go down. Their mother comes running when the child lands face first in the softened wood padding.

To Peter's right, there is a stoked bike rack. Flexing his fingers, he debates whether he truly _needs_ one.

 _that the chapter with the reptile has started_

 _Looking at it the other way around,_

 _perhaps this episode wouldn't have had a beginning_

 _if it wasn't for that incident._

He probably stays there minutes longer, considering. He isn't sure. He isn't only thinking about stealing a bicycle.

Then, Peter's head snaps up hearing a familiar voice.

"I didn't know this is where the unfortunate come to gather. Be careful, you don't want to infect everyone else here with your type of luck."

He sees Rainy approaching down the sidewalk. School must be over now.

"And what kind of luck would _that_ be?" A brow quirks, lip twisting unhappily.

"Hmm... The small, minor...mundane kind."

He growls. "Remember that I didn't have to rescue you from that place, and I could have left you at that carnival."

"And do you want a medal for that?" She holds that reply without any value, and shuffles the small bag hanging from her shoulder—it looks odd and out of place on her. "You don't usually hang around little children, do you? That would be a disappointment to know that you are a pervert. For the sake of your safety here, you aren't one, are you, Maximoff?"

He scowls. Rolls his eyes. Sneers.

 _black pause scene_

"I remember there's a quote I read once that said: _The only thing that matters in your life right now is time. Use it wisely or you'll forever regret the waste_. I thought it's kind of good. It reminded me of you, you know—you're always hyper-energetic, always going fast like you don't have enough time."

He pauses, shrugs. He isn't going to object. "Sure. But—what are _you_ doing here?"

Peter is leaning against a semicircle jungle gym, hands in the pockets of his ripped jeans, wearing a band t-shirt, frowning. She notices that he often frowns.

"At a playground, same as you."

"Aren't you a little _too big_ for playgrounds?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

Another pause. He glares.

"I thought you were dead."

"I thought you were a menace."

 _Glare_.

Children struggle to spin each other on a merry-go-round. Two of the swings are taken; the third's occupant jumps off midair. Neither teen sees how he lands and are staring—glaring—at each other instead.

Peter changes positions, leaning against his side now instead of his back. Crossing his arms, he huffs, looking the girl up and down. "So why _are_ you here, really?"

"I was threatened by my mother that I either explain where some of her marijuana had went or go do yard work. I convinced her that she ate it all some time ago during one of her highs." Really, Rainy stole it, selling the drugs to pay back some of what she gave away to the conman mutant from Balzani's Carnival.

"Speaking of, how'd it go? With your folks and all? Did it roll over nicely or...or what?"

"Do you remember when I said that they were a deadbeat and a liar? That hasn't changed. They also don't really need anything else to worry about."

 _Oh_.

 _black pause scene_

"Which reminds me. Maximoff, is there anything you want for me to do for you? After the situation with the Wish Granter and everything, this can be a sort of return offer." She's sitting on the bars of the semicircle jungle gym now, slightly looking down at him, slightly above eye level. "I can only take one request, but it can be anything. I remember that you don't like money, correct?"

"Now I didn't say _that_ though."

"Then what would you like as payment? That's the decent thing to do, isn't it?" She is still having trouble with such things. "I'm still trying to get accustomed to all of this."

"All of what? You're acting like it is something... _drastic_..." He stops at realizing his words, remembering the situation. Of that suspicious man in the robes with the unnerving glint in his stare. Of the woman with three eyes. The odd, haunting tapestry pictures. "Um..."

"Having feelings," Rainy responds. She looks to her palms, opening and closing them, feeling her skin pull and contract, the sensation still needing adjusting. "Having emotion."

"Say, did you ever get your all memories back? Are they the right ones? The guy didn't flake, did he?"

Rainy pauses, thinking. "I think so, that they're all back."

Well that's a relief.

He sees that she's still wearing that locket necklace and became suddenly curious about the picture inside, but refrains from asking—from asking _yet_. The golden heart locket is terribly scratched.

Pigeons coo loudly in nearby trees. Rain clouds roll in from the distance.

"So, what is it that you'd like me to do for you? The Wish Granter is content with just money. But for you, it can be anything."

The teen blinks. "A-anything?" He scuffs the heel of his shoe against the ground.

Peter is extremely selfish, so Rainy has no idea to watch what she offers him.

The boy feels the tug of a terrible smirk pulling at his lips.

"Really. Anything is acceptable."

He has to take a moment to think. From his time spent, he knows that this girl can be tricky. Sometimes the things she'll say will be like a double-edged sword, and he doesn't want to be hoodwinked. Doesn't want to fall prey to any deception.

"No matter what the wish, I will give it," Rainy lays the offer out. "But, you're limited to only one. Whether it's world-domination, popularity, a high reputation, or idolization. All are acceptable."

She would end up feeding his ego

"You really think you have enough power to do that?"

"Of course."

He scoffs. "Such confidence," is muttered to himself, sardonically. He steps back as she slides to the ground. Her forehead maybe vomes to the top of the bridge of his nose.

"But truthfully, I'd prefer to hear a more personal wish because it's easier." She turns, strolling to the right.

"Easier?" He follows her, venturing further into the park.

"Easier to grant," she clarifies, side stepping a toddler.

"Yeah, I can see that."

"Anything, really. Anything you'd want?"

He huffs. It's really a tempting offer, but—

"Look, I'm not some sleazebag like that conman from the carnival—-"

"You're right. You're your own category of laziness."

Peter ignores the insult. "-— _So_ , and I really don't have a preference for payment."

Rainy tilts her chin up. "Ah, so you have a wide variety of secret obsessions instead that you're into? Or kinks? I surely thought that you were as inexperienced as you let on. I think I'm feeling... _disappointed_?"

" _That's_ what you're disappointed about?!"

She shrugs. "I suppose I just don't like being wrong."

That makes sense.

"Well I'm not some _pervert_ ," he feels as if he should clarify for good measure.

They take a seat at the edge of the park, sitting on the elevated black dividers keeping the mulch and wood chips in perimeter—Rainy sitting lightly, Peter plopping and quaking the dividers slightly.

An airplane flies overhead and out of sight, the sound resonating through the area.

He scratches his hair underneath his hat. "Say? Rainy? Even if there is some kind of _arrangement_ that's made, I think us just...being..." He searches for the right words. "...This... _associates_ — whatever this is you want this thing to be afterwards—it's going to be difficult. So, no. Stop. I don't want favors. I never go through with them anyway."

She's silent. Watches him fidget, stare out into the park. A squirrel scampers past their feet.

"Associates..." She takes it all in, mentally, rationing, tasting the title. "If you put it that way, you have a point. You're right. It would be rational, I suppose..."

He blinks, shocked, stunned. _He's right_!?

"Hey are you thinking ok? Did you get your brain scrambled? Are you the same Rainy I know?"

She stares at him silently with a look that is not quite questioning, and not quite un-amused. "No, I'm perfectly fine." She then points to his face but he's still stunned yet holding a grin. "But don't go around claiming that I'm just some agreeing maiden. That was a one-time occasion, so don't expect it often."

He blinks, astonished. His lips still inch at the start of a smile.

 _red pause scene_

Some time later, the two migrate to one of the benches stationed near the edge of the playground. There aren't many people left now; three families have already come and gone.

Peter leans back on his arms. Rainy cross her legs. He looks the other way, inhales deeply through his nose, convinced that he's losing his common sense.

"Maybe I came off too brash—-" she begins.

"You very often do."

"-—But honestly, is there anything you need help with, Maximoff? And tell me if I'm wrong..." She looks at him; he's looking the complete opposite way. "Something that's bothering you?" Rainy watches his foot tap the air rapidly.

"No."

"I'm not a very good talker so I can't say it very well, but my intention of wanting to help you are sincere."

He turns slowly, meeting her gaze.

"Hmm..." There's a noticeable space in-between them. And he _considers_ the possibility of revealing out loud... He considers it, goes against it. "Say, if I _do_ tell you..."

"Oh, what is it?" She noticeably perks up, but catches herself and mellows back down. Peter's brows immediately arch and his eyes widen. "Try telling me about it. You'll feel better if you just talk instead of bottling it in. That's what they say, at least, anyway."

Peter's look is still one of bewilderment. "Umm..."

That's the most expression he's seen her have and it's... _unusual_ , almost strange. He's been caught off guard. He hadn't been ready.

So expressive

 _Is this normal?_

He looks out at a small child getting stuck in the middle of the monkey bars. She falls to the ground, scrapping her knees, and screaming. Peter decides that it wouldn't hurt much to tell Rainy.

He begins by in-taking a deep breath. "I had a fight with my sister. Well really it's an argument but—-you know."

"Oh." Pause. "That seems like something I can't help with very well." She hears him sigh loudly, almost a groan. "But for the time being, why don't you go ahead and tell the rest of your story?"

"For the time being," he mocks under his breath. It isn't like she's _really_ going to listen, he reminds himself. She probably is just going to take it and tell everyone back at school. Start up more rumors, drag him further through the mud. Revenge. Hatred.

He glances at her again. She's giving a small smile he thinks is aupposed to be reassuring. He isn't quite sure how to take it.

Peter sighs.

"Your sister is that girl in the red jacket at school? She doesn't talk much, does she? She's the one whose been hanging around another associate of mine, right?"

"Yeah, Wanda's a basket case. She's weird. She won't really like you—if you think you're someone with authority, I mean." _Or anyone popular_ , he doesn't add.

"I think we kind of met before." She means the confrontation about a month ago with Wanda Maximoff approaching her, seeming randomly. Though she isn't going to get into that. "But what's the story of what happened?"

He scratches his temple. He's nervous. "There isn't really a _story_ ," he lies. "She caught me coming home late and for the last few weeks she's been demanding to know where I had been. When I told her, she got angry. She didn't like it. We had an argument and I left."

"I see."

The pigeons in the trees fly off in a flurry.

"That's a pretty complicated problem."

He scoffs. "It's not _that_ complicated. Wanda's always on my case. She doesn't like anyone, really."

"No, I mean the situation, not the person. Is she your younger sister?"

"Oh." He shrugs, trying to make it a smaller concern. "No, she's—" He hesitates. "She's my twin." He watches Rainy's brows rise from his peripheral. "Yeah. Well...maybe it's because it's just...maybe it's just me being petty, getting all upset by something _she_ said, yeah."

Rainy leans back on her palms, feeling the warm concrete under her hands. "No. I think it's pretty rational."

He _humph_ -s.

She turns her head to the left, her hair falling from one shoulder as she watches him staring up at the sky. The clouds are approaching closer. It's going to rain. "I'm afraid to say that in regards to your pettiness, there's nothing I can do really, even with my abilities."

His bright brows draw together. "How about a little encouragement," he snaps.

"Sorry, I'm being brash again, aren't I? But it's rather obvious, and in regards to your pettiness, there's nothing I can really do, even with my abilities," she repeats in a lighter tone.

He sighs again. Why is he still here again?

Peter leans up and crouches over his knees. The other watches him pick up a random wood chip. "You probably think it's really lame—me—for being bothered by such things." But Peter thinks at a much quicker pace than she, and can easily overthink. In the matter of seconds of his pause, he raises his head and is already considering the worst. A few seconds later, he appears to becoming angry. "Why are you even still here? Why don't you go off with your _popular_ friends or that new boy you'll be hanging out with? Why do you keep coming here, acting like you actually _care_?" His arm thrusts into the air, the words spoken through clenched teeth.

Rainy watches him quietly, calmly. She waits until he has calmed and, looking down at the ground, begins to speak again.

"I hardly do. Think of it as lame, that is. It's the type of lame you get from receiving an obscene fortune from a fortune cookie. Or from believing that one can actually make all your hopes and burdens go away. It's completely understandable but at the same time, it won't get you anywhere without affirmative action."

His voice muffles, "you use a lot of high quality words."

"And to think about it, your type of lameness is like those cookie fortunes. The ones that don't state that anything bad is going to happen, but nothing specifically good either. Like this one from a Chinese restaurant I went to two days ago. It said: _You won't be as happy as you think in the beginning, after don't hurry to build your house. If you do so, it will be grants. The cocoon of happiness will unwrap, and you will have nothing to worry about_."

He doesn't speak. She must have a really good memory.

"That really _is_ lame," he sulks.

Shrugging, there's a hint of grin on her face. "But you also look like the type who would be caring towards his sister. And I can't deny that adds a bit of _brownie points_ towards you. You're also kind of charming. I see how all the girls fall for you."

He wonders if that is sarcasm again.

It partially is.

Peter groans.

Rainy giggles.

Peaceful

HEARTS

* * *

Neither of the two of the mutant trio have heard from Ronny since he's suddenly gone M.I.A. Neither Peter nor Meisha have spoken with him—they have _seen_ him, passing by in the halls but haven't made a conscious effort to _communicate_. Because now, Peter has a new set of issues to deal with and to understand, and Meisha—

 _Where is Meisha?_

The young redhead stares at her reflection in the bathroom mirror of her home. She is gripping the edges of the guest bathroom counter, the corners digging into her palms and tinting them a flushed red. She is gritting her teeth, her lips pulled back as she watches her red-orange hair, loose and billowing around her on its own, swaying outward in all directions as if floating, as if she is submerged underwater. Her hair dances and twirls about her as her eyes turn a more brighter, predatory color. She snarls, groans, tears gathering in her eyes.

The second voice in her head commands, vociferates. Covets. Invades.

The girl sobs.

She's locked herself inside for the past—ten?—twenty?—fifteen minutes. She isn't quite sure.

She is afraid. Whenever the voice returns, she would become utterly, completely taken over by fear. She would feel powerless, victimized, violated. She's never sure what would happen if she were to listen and she never wants to find out if she would obey—not again. She doesn't want to repeat that horrific incident two years ago at her school. Most times she feels guilty about hurting that boy and leaving him wounded on the tile floor. Other times, she feels that he deserved it.

Meisha's eyes are tinting a bright amber color. She snarls into the mirror, feeling fear, feeling control slipping.

Only when her mother calls from the living area down the hall, snapping the young mutant back to reality and making her jump, does Meisha's shoulders fall and she is able to gulp down a breath as the voice in her head fades, submerges, and finally quiets. Her hair falls limp again, tickling the upper-middle of her thighs; it falls back into the curls her mother styled it into, and she wipes at her face, hopes that her puffy eyes wouldn't be _too_ noticeable as she steadies and steels herself before stepping out the bathroom door.

Meisha is always anxious, nervous, and stressed.

They will be having family over soon for a get-together her mother planned.

As the mutant exits the bathroom, she hears that some of them have already arrived.

Meisha forces a small, polite smile.


	26. 23: fascinat (Episode 9)

**A/N: This chapter was actually written before all the others. So if feels a bit off, that's probably why.**

* * *

Three weeks later

It's Thursday. And just like every other Thursday—or any day for that matter—Peter is left to his own devices, forever stuck in this godforsaken slow world.

He leans back, craning his neck to the clouds. His chest heaves as he regains his breath from his previous run. His bright hair is a mess, windblown.

Earlier, an argument had broken out between himself and his twin sister, Wanda. The result of it had been her setting the backyard shrubbery on fire and him disappearing in a blur to go to blow off steam by doing what he does best: running, of course. And in his impulsive decision he decides to run the perimeter of the county in under twenty seconds. It's a new record for him; and upon returning, collapsed where he is now.

And there is no one around.

He wonders why he decided to come to a park instead of returning home—but then he remembers Wanda and decides to get comfy where he is. Wanda avoids parks like The Plague. She claims to have bad run-ins and terrible "coincidences" whenever she comes.

He doesn't come to the park for any particular reason than to avoid his sister.

Had arrived here randomly, going wherever his feet carried him.

But as the most known park in town, with it empty as it is now, he feels as if he's the only person in the world. It adds that it's a holiday today, so whatever little kids who would have been here are currently gone with their families.

ALONE

Perhaps it's an exaggeration, but it feels as if the park belongs to him. As if it would be perfectly alright if he never returned home.

He collapses under the flagpole. It's on a hill at the center of the park; there's a low concrete wall that surrounds the base of the pole in a square formation, which also serves as a makeshift bench overlooking the entire park. In a way, it's like overlooking his own colorful kingdom.

Far off to his right passed a swings set, he watches a small girl look at the town map printed on the side of a nearby building. Peter perks a bit. She leaves without a glance in his direction. She had only been looking for directions.

Alone again

In front of him, a large colorful circular jungle gym blocks most of his view. If his sister does happen to come past, he most likely wouldn't even see.

It's funny that despite many saying that the two don't really look alike for twins, they possess the same attitude, particularly stubbornness.

"If you're going to be like that—-" Wanda snaps before the bushes beside her bursts into flames.

He drops his head in his hands, remembering unwantedly. He makes the memory go away. He doesn't want to think about anything stressful.

She jumps, surprised herself, before he takes off.

It's a good thing they had been in the back and not the front yard, or else they would have risked being victim to screams, accusations, and perhaps worse if seen.

But it's days like this of staring at the sky, when he's pretty calm, when he could go at his own speed without worry when he becomes tired of his inability to synchronize with the world. He knows that time is constantly passing by much longer for him than for the rest of the world. He wonders if one day it could get better. For him, or the world.

Maybe this is what you call self-loathing?

Normally, he's not the type to be troubled easily, as if the word "troubled" has no such power over him. But every so often, he ends up in conditions like this.

He's very sensitive to such things, when he loses his cool and gets restless

The normal days are the best. When everything is back to routine and nothing odd or out of the ordinary happens, and it's nearly peaceful.

He wishes that tomorrow wouldn't come.

He's so lost in himself that he doesn't notice the approaching presence until it's too late to escape.

"Oh, my. Well, well." The voice is soft, feminine. The sound of heels clicks along the concrete. "I thought someone left a kicks dog around here." She stops. Hip pops to the side. "But it turns out it's just you, Pietro." She calls his first name, knowing he hates when people do.

His lips parts when he saw it's her, again—Rainy Capulet.

She stands in between the colorful climbing bars, eyes crinkling with a smile.

He's taken off guard.

"What? I was just saying hello," she defends innocently. "It's a joke."

He blinks. He's used to her words that can switch from warm to harsh at the flip of a dime. Of her blunt, honest attitude that changed freely on a whim. He's used to seeing her in school clothes, a tacky tie-dye shirt and jeans at most. He is not used to seeing her in street clothes. Especially ones that have a style.

She smiles, her eyes crinkling. They're slanted and often remind him of a cat's.

"No, uh..."

"Well, then, Pietro, you little boy?" She remarks about the goggles he's forgotten are still around his forehead. "Were you just fascinated by my charming street clothes?" She jumps up on an elevated stepping block, hopping her way down the path to his direction. "A moment of bliss, perhaps?" Her white shoes click against the hard steps.

That may have been a bad pun, but he really is fascinated.

She wears a short, stripped long sleeved shirt of earth tones and red, high-waisted bell-bottom jeans. Bracelets, white sandals, yellow shoulder bag, and a high ombre brown ponytail makes up the rest of her attire.

And she can be pretty damn cocky herself at times.

He doesn't answer, thinking of the right comeback. She doesn't take it as so.

"Anyway, fascination's meaning is the inability to look away, isn't it?" She lands on solid ground, begins making her way up the few stairs to the flagpole, not breaking eye contact. The smile before is now gone. "Don't you know? The word originates from the Latin word fascinat, which is where we get bewitched from." She's rambling, filling the silence because he obviously wouldn't.

She jumps the last step and now stands in front of him.

He defends himself, "I'm just surprised because those clothes give off a different air than what I have seen you in before. That's it. Nothing else, alright."

"I guess," she sighs. "I guess it's because I'm wearing mellower clothes then. Besides those hideous tie-dyes."

He muses this over.

"Speaking of which, I bought this whole outfit yesterday. But I'm happy; I wanted you to see them first, if possible. If I happen to run into you, of course."

It's a small town

"'If you wants to show them to me first'...? Why are you making it sound like seeing your clothes is a stroke of luck or honor?"

She places her hands on her hips and bends down closer, coming in his face, making sure he hears her annunciate each word. "I didn't want to show you them. I wanted you to see them." The locket of her golden necklace bounces against her chest. "The nuance is completely different."

He frowns.

Her eyes are unwavering and (dare he say it) bewitching.

She straightens her stance. "By the way, Pietro, just what are you doing here?" Her look returns to one of indifference, her somewhat calm default resting face.

"Uh, walking. Sitting now." He's being a smartass. "Why are you here?"

She looks to the neighboring apartments. "This used to be my place. I used to live around here. But of course like most things, that all changed...obviously."

He bounces a leg. Watches her gaze remain on the buildings in the distance, and he forms thoughts that make him question his own sanity. Because there's a kind of sadness about her features and he begins to wonder, begins jumping to conclusions.

Rainy and Peter introduced themselves under stressed and unsure circumstances. Even though they've been in the same class, prior, they've never interacted. Never needed to. Now, it's almost inevitable how they keep running into each other, how they are. Clashing and bouncing off of each other like atoms. It's almost as if they are being forced by the gods to get to know each other. Where otherwise, they would have never proceeded to.

Now, one couldn't shake off the other.

"It's not that I'm emotional about it, but... For some reason seeing where I lived has changed, it makes my motivation slip."

"Motivation?" he speaks a heartbeat after.

"Yes. You know, since last month."

He follows her gaze to a sign that reads Uptown Valley—the name of the apartment complex.

And it's been two month in total since returning from that traveling carnival, the same place that ruined her life but managed to restore it back.

There is something solemn about her features.

She glances at him then way again. "My father wants the entire place torn down," she randomly tells him. "My mother never speaks against him for anything. That's why I can't stand this town, to be trapped here with them."

Watching her, for once Peter doesn't say anything.

Her father is many things to the public: for some, he is the political leader they have been waiting for the town; to others, he is a guy who is a former coworker making it to the top; then to some, he is an active anti-mutant supporter; still to a few, he's known as a family member, a son, a brother, husband, or father. Peter couldn't say the man is loving because he never met him in person.

"Who's to say you have to stay here anyway? It's a big world out there, they say, yeah? But isn't that unavoidable? About the moving-away thing? I mean, you wouldn't really have a choice on where to go for the time being—with your parents and all. Especially given your dad's trying to become mayor?" He speaks as if he doesn't have enough time.

She doesn't answer right away. "That's right; it's unavoidable." She grips the strap to the yellow bag on her shoulder. "Hey, Peter. You don't care if I sit next to you, do you?"

He pauses. "Next to me...?" It's said as if wanted or disbelief.

Her face is stolid. "There's something I want to discuss with you."

Yes, of course I don't want you to!—is what he wants to say. But the words never come out. Instead, he's staring up at her like an idiot, in the process of speaking and probably, likely, going to diss her. Instead, he chokes out a "fine." He wouldn't say it, but having an entire bench to himself, especially now with her standing in front of him, makes him feel a bit uneasy. Even more knowing there would be nowhere to run now when she takes the empty space on the square cement makeshift bench.

Behind them, the flag flops in the light breeze.

Rainy slides in close next to him.

CLOSE

Her leg bumps his. He glances but she doesn't give any notion to move. She doesn't even look at him.

touch

He glances over at her and his chest jumps into his throat. He questions his sanity.

"I thought I would try thanking you for your help—properly, I mean."

"Uh," he slurs, draws along the syllable. "I don't care about that." He removes the goggles from his forehead, feeling his face mysteriously heating up. "I'm not the type of guy for apologies, always seems too sentimental." Wipes his mouth nervously. Frowning. Skeptical, suspicious, unsuspecting actually.

She's smiling. It's faint, but a smile nonetheless. "If you're not willing to accept an apology, I can thank you in a different way." She leans in closer now, her features turing serious once more.

"Stop thinking you have to owe me something." It comes out harsher than intended.

Her brows rise in an un-amused manner. He inches away to put distance between his jeans and hers.

He attempts to redeems himself. "It's going to make getting along and knowing you tougher. That's why."

Her eyes widen momentarily. "Getting along, huh?" She scoots next to him, purposely eliminating the space once between them, knowing his intentions to run.

He bounces his legs rapidly, antsy. Adrenaline suddenly begins coursing through him. She notices this and drums her fingers on her thighs. Peter watches.

She looks out onto the empty playground. Both are silent, just taking in their surroundings—well, Peter's mind is going at high speed. But Rainy isn't finished.

"Pietro?"

He resists correcting her about his name, to tell her to call him by his Americanized name, and instead acknowledges that he hears her.

Then suddenly comes: "can I think of you as someone dear?" Her eyes are slanted along the sides, her eye color bright as she turns to him.

CLOSER

Her appearance alone had been totally unexpected. But this—this is completely un-foretold. And he's at lost for words, a rarity for those who know him.

This is her. This is Rainy Capulet, who has appeared unannounced on more occasions than he would like to count. This is the one who is asking him such an unusual and seemingly unnaturalquestion. If he were to be asked this by her those months ago, he would have probably gotten angry, blown her off, and left. But still, even now, he finds "no" on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't know how he constantly runs into this girl, nor why he constantly tolerates her if he can't stand her presence. He doesn't know why he keeps coming back. They aren't friends...

"You're not the type who makes friends easily, are you?" he answers instead.

Now she's beginning to appear angry. Peter shuffles uncomfortably.

"I have. I have several whom I consider close friends. I also know more people than you have family."

"Are you trying to pick a fight!?" He grits his teeth.

She has no idea that all the family he has is his twin sister, Wanda; the Romani woman, Marya Maximoff, who has been raising them since they were young; and Marya's biological daughter.

"Well I guess..." Her voice remains calm, trailing off, becoming soft once more. "What about you? I remember how you didn't really speak to many at school."'

He weighs his options before responding. "Yeah, so? I had a sort of...shift in things these passed several years. In a lot of things, actually." He wonders why he is speaking so much to her. Then to bounce back, he retorts, "were you always this hard and cryptic?"

Rainy studies him. Head tilts slightly, a sight he finds he couldn't easily look away from. Her eyes wide now, don't diverge from his. Her lips set in a tight, straight line. "I never really cared much for many people on a deep level. I haven't for a long time. I didn't really stay around many people either—you know that. And why. And it was...bad. But I was like that a bit up until recently. More specifically, until I met you."

What is this?

'What is she saying? What is she meaning?' The thought jumps into his mind. He feels as if he'is beginning to lose it.

Peter swallows. She leans a little closer. His vision sways.

CLOSER

"What I also mean to say, Pietro, is no matter what you say, I have to pay you back."

He's dizzy.

CLOSER

"Once that's over..."

His vision spins.

"...We'll be more comfortable, be on even footing and become friends," she whispers, her face inside his personal bubble.

Every time she would lean in closer to emphasis her point, he would bend a little further away, where now she's practically leaning over on top of him.

And then her words process: And become friends.

FRIENDS

She smiles.

Later that day, he locks himself in his room; fingers twins in front of his lips, leaning over his bouncing knees, he couldn't help but feel a lot letdown.

* * *

 **A/N: So that's it. The end of this first installment of four that were planned. I really do hope that this is liked. If not, feel free to complain in to me. Just don't be a jackass, please.**

* * *

 _ **A/N:** There is a sequel to this fic on and it's called "Touch", and has already started to be written. A one-shot fic set in the future (though the original thought was that it was canon, now I am not sure) has also been published here, and it's called "Mortality's Sheep"._

 _An AU short series that is set in the future, right after X-Men: Apocalypse, is posted. It has two parts, each about 5 chapters. The first one is "Muscle Memory", and the sequel is titled "Like Water". If you like any of those, please show your love with a review or two, even a short and simple one._

* * *

 _Or, if you don't want to or don't care for them, check out my other stuff - which are completely different and unrelated to this series._

 _— Onyxx :)_


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